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DRAMATIC SKETCHES 



AND 



POEMS 



BY 



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LOUIS J. BLOCK. 




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PHILADELPHIA: 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. 
I 89 I. 



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Copyright, 1 89 1, by Louis J. Block. 



" 'orYi''LRS'vNPr'Rr '""" 



■i|| |sreKeoT7i''LRS'vNPr'RiNTERS| |i 



TO MY FRIEND 

DR. H. K. JONES 
®;fti$ Book 

IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED. 



CONTENTS. 



DRAMATIC. 

PAGE 

Exile — An Episode ii 

Tantalus 83 

Pygmalion 86 

Hanging the Pictures , 90 

LYRICAL AND NARRATIVE. 

Ad Poetam . 95 

The New Midas 96 

The Feast of Roses loi 

Ariadne 109 

Actseon in 

Ithaca 114 

A Dream 116 

The Royal Questioner 118 

Longing 127 

Weaving 131 

My Ship 13s 

Success 138 

The Field 140 

Wild Wind of the North 143 

The Evening Star 145 

The Drop 146 

Snow-mist 147 

I* 5 



6 CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The Cliff 148 

The Rose 150 

The Star 151 

Resurgence '. . •• 152 

The New Day 155 

Before Winter 159 

Noon 162 

A Summer Morning 164 

The Inlet i66 

The Voice of the Soul 168 

The Sirens 170 

Faith 172 

The Quest 174 

Forever 176 

The Eternal Heights 177 

Fate . . 178 

A Thought 179 

Solitude 180 

Warning 182 

Echo 183 

Invitation 184 

Premonition 185 

A Platonic Hymn . , 186 

Tuberose • 191 

A Sigh 193 

SONNETS. 

Suspiria 197 

Sub-conscious 198 

Sunrise in Winter 199 



CONTENTS. 7 

PAGE 

For Pictures. I. — War 200 

II. — Peace 200 

Progress 202 

World-Slumber . . . . ■ 203 

Pandemos 204 

Urania 206 

The Soul speaks 208 

The Intellect speaks 209 

The Spirit speaks 210 

Fulfilment 211 

Dedication 212 



DRAMATIC. 



EXILE. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

The Stranger. 

Father. 

Mother. 

Ida. 1 

. > Two children. 

Alfred. ) 

Scene : The shore and waters of an inlet of the sea. 



I. 

The Stranger {alone). 

Is there in the deed-world a deed, a way, 
Worth doing or worth following? Is there aught 
That can call out from spirit's secret deeps 
The hopes, the longings, that lie sleeping there, 
Until the hour, the time, ordained of God, 
Touches them with light point of spear or dart, 
And they leap forth in light ? I cannot deem so. 
The largest deeds of men are slender waves 
Upon the sea's unmeasured stretch ; a king 
Sits high enthroned, and dim forgetfulness 
Clothes him as with a robe ; great love of men 
Would set the crooked straight, and stem the stream 

II 



12 EXILE. 

That flows to gulfs of death and shame, and turn 

Its speed to where the happy fields are green, 

But age on age the self-same tasks survive, 

The work is still to do. So large man's soul. 

That all the outer world is but a star 

Upon its sky, and from its own deep might 

Star after star appears — white lustrous births 

From its unresting motions. All things are small, 

All deeds but limited by things or deeds ; 

The sense of utter power, and might unswerved 

From its clear end, resides not in the realm 

Where souls appulse 'gainst souls, and the lame act 

Halts far behind the wish ; in thought alone 

Is perfect freedom ; even the seeming laws 

Wherein all thought is bound, that wizard keen 

Unmakes, and from the wide upheaval rears 

Such domes as suit its myriad caprice. 

The bitter code of good and ill, the feud 

Wherein all pleasure dies, the rigorous choice 

Compelling men to one strait way, — wherefore 

Should the unconquered soul submit its head 

To wear the yoke ? In sooth there are two worlds ; 

I care not for that slavish bounded realm 

Where there is work to do, and men meet men. 

And strongest cords of relative despair 

Encircle you ; I see no cause to act ; 

I cast mine eyes upon the course of years 

Even to the pale beginning. I see the world 

Much like itself, bent double on its deeds. 

And seeking the impossible, — to make 

The world of work reflect the world of thought. 

It is in vain, a futile opposition 



EXILE. 13 

To the essential framework of the world ; 

There are two worlds, a contrast sharp and dire, 

And reconcilement cannot be. I, therefore, 

Leave effort proved forerunner of defeat, 

And with my thought am satisfied. I see 

At will all splendor take on form and hue, 

A pageantry of dreams pass through my soul, 

Make joy for me past what the things can give j 

For fantasy is more than all the world. 

It is with thought that I am fallen in love ; 

I hate the sickly kissings, clasping hands, 

The bitter bonds of love that lures us, love 

As in the world misnamed, say, rather, lust 

Or some such strain which is for beasts, not men. 

But lo ! I penetrate all mysteries, 

I hold the keys, I watch how in my thought 

Idea shapes idea, and the sphere 

Rounds itself in the mighty thought of God. 

I ponder the dark riddles of the sages, 

I muse with the sweet poets, I forsake 

The chill embrace of earth; — and this is best. 

I shall withdraw me more and more, and reach 

The peace which mystic faith has dreamed on, peace 

Past understanding save to those strong souls 

Who can renounce whatso the outer brings. 

And live alone that hid internal life, 

Which is the all in all, both each and all, 

Oneness eterne o'erruling vast diverse. 

Intellect pure in pure activity. 



14 EXILE. 

II. 

Alfred. 

I wish I were at home ; I hate the sea, 
Where all day long you see no boys, and sand 
Is all you have to play in. 

Ida. 

But you swim, 
And go out in the boat, and once you went 
With father in a yacht, and stayed all night, 
And caught great loads of fish. 

Alfred. 

I want to be 
Down in the town where all the men are gone, 
And have the boys to play with, but out here 
You only see the water — ^just naught to me — 
And gather pebbles girl-like on the beach. 
And swim but once a day — a mere half-hour. 

Ida. 

I like to see the waves roll far away, 
And watch the wind make them look dark, and how 
The little, clean, slim fish shoot here and there. 
And the bright ripples break upon the shore. 

Alfred. 

I understand that girls may like such things. 
In which I see no fun. I never know 
What makes you glad, except you want me near, 
And often kiss me out of time. 



EXILE. 15 

Ida. 

Oh— oh— 

You boys have no conceit. I think it time 
For me to go back home. 

Alfred. 

No, no, you must not, 
And leave me here alone. We can but talk, 
There's nothing else to do, and then you know 
One cannot talk with one's mere self. 

Ida. 

Quite well ; 
I sat the other day out in the wood 
Alone for two long hours, and all the time 
I talked with persons that seemed in my mind. 
And they were beautiful. 

Alfred. 

You mean you thought ; 
You make my head ache like the school-master, 
Who tells us we must think, and so be good; 
But I am sure he never thinks, or he 
Would hardly scold the wrong boy as he does. 

Ida. 

You are just dull ; it was not thought at all. 

It was not like addition, but a dream 

Such as you have at night, save that you wake. 

Alfred. 
And will you tell me what your dream was like? 
I little understand you when you speak. 



1 6 EXILE. 

And say these curious things, but still I like it, 
And my head sounds as though a bee shut up 
Sang in my brain, and I knew what it said. 

Ida. 

But you must not break in and laugh ; 

That makes me cry ; I love what my dreams show, 

And you are cruel like most boys. 

Alfred. 

Nay, cease ; 
You know I never laugh at you ; I laugh 
Because the story makes me, and you cry 
When most I love you ; for somehow you seem 
So good when you go on and talk. 

Ida. 

Well, then, 
I will begin. You know the wood I mean — 
You cross the hill, and in the hollow there 
The trees stand thickest, and all is so still, 
You only hear the waters washing faint 
And far away. The roses there grow wild, 
And in one spot the thick, wild grape-vines grow, 
And the sweet odorous roses climb high up. 
And you can sit within a summer-house 
The good God made. 

Alfred. 
I know the very place ; 
Where we went picnicking, and father said, 
If he had money, he would buy the ground. 
And build. 



EXILE. 17 

Ida. 

I sat there for awhile and sang, 
And then I know not how, but this I saw — 
The long green grasses swayed, and rose, and swayed. 
And all the wild flowers I could see ; I knew 
That there was little wind, for the tall aspen 
Scarce showed the silver of its trembling leaves. 
So I grew still, and watched what I could see. 

Alfred. 

And what was that ? You take so long to tell 
What I should say in half the time. 

Ida. 

At last 
Out from the spires of grass, and all the flowers, 
I cannot tell you how, a fairy leapt, 
And soon the air was changed, a golden gloam 
Came in its stead, and on their swiftest wings 
They flew and sought a level spot — ^just where 
The mossy old stump stands. I saw them plain, 
The fairies of the grass were long slim things. 
With queer peaked faces, and long golden wings 
They folded round them like a dress of light. 
And when they sang, you heard a small soft sound 
That was right sharp in sweetness ; but the roses — 
From them there came small lady-like sweet forms 
That were all fire, — but not the fire that burns, — : 
A rosy gentle flame ; they flew in curves. 
And sang a song that makes me love you better ; 
But the buttercups would have been joy to you, 
For they were stout, and clothed in shining gold, 



1 8 EXILE. 

And seemed to lord it everywhere so that 
The violets, so thin you hardly saw them, 
Nor knew them from the air, scampered away 
When the gold tyrants came ; but night would come 
Before I told you all. 

Alfred. 

What did they there ? 

Ida. 

I cannot tell ; I heard their voices small, 
And they flew round me so that — as, at night 
When you put head beneath the coverlet. 
You see the fire and color interweave — 
Their forms of many hues blended and mixed 
And fell apart, a shifting play of flames, 
Red, blue, and gold, and all so full of glee 
That now my heart is glad to think upon it. 
I sat quite still, and tried to stop my breath. 
Till I began to weep, and then I laughed, — 
And at the sound, they vanished, one and all. 

Alfred. 

That is a pretty tale ; you must have slept 

And dreamed. 

Ida. 

If you go on as you do often, 
I shall be sorry that I told you. 

Alfred. 

You say 
You saw, and were awake ? Hard to believe ; 
Why do I never have such luck as you? 



EXILE. 19 

But then I often find things when I walk, 
And you find nothing. 

Ida. 

Well, then, be content. 

Alfred. 

But do you think the fairies really are, 
And live within the grass and every flower? 
Why then they die whenever flowers are plucked ; 
You cannot make me think that such things are, 
I never saw one, and you only dreamed. 

Ida. 

You are too hard ; why do you make me speak, 
And tell you things, if you will treat me so? 

Alfred. 

There, now, you cry, and yet I meant no harm. 
Come, let me kiss you on your forehead white ; 
So, you smile through your tears. I understand 
But little how you girls are made or think ; 
I saw you watch the other day awhile 
The blood-red splashes left upon the sea 
When the great sun went down ; but father came 
And brought the marbles, so I turned away ; 
But you and mother sat till the dull gray 
Came on the sky, and the big ball of fire 
Was gone, and you refused to play. Now say 
What did you see ? 

Ida. 

Why, you must look and learn ; 
The little waves seemed all to clap their hands 



20 EXILE. 

When a red ray went through them, and the clouds 
Floated and swept to bathe them in the glow 
As if they wished to die on the sun's breast ; 
And he shed forth his light intent to give 
All that he had to make them glad, as I 
Would do for you when you are kind to me. 

Alfred. 

Well, maybe I shall know when I am grown. 
Now let us walk down to the beach, and play 
At house-building, with me for architect. 
And you shall order what you want ; run, run. 

Ida. 

But I shall want a castle old, with towers 
x\ll clad with dark-green ivy-leaves, and windows 
With diamond panes, besides a chapel grave 
Where I can go alone, and softly pray. 

Alfred. 

Small use in that ; you shall receive from me 
A nobler gift, — a lofty brown-stone front, 
With basement for the servants, and within 
The walls well painted, and with mirrors tall 
In parlor ; nobody cares for castles now. 

Ida. 

It shall be as you wish ; but see the waves, 
How little sparks of silver fire bestud them. 
And from the oars the fiery water falls. 
And far away the distant blue shore lies 
Like an unmoving mist. 



EXILE. 21 

Alfred. 

Come on and play. 
Here is the sand that reaches up the hill, 
And we can build our houses as we list. 
Come on and play, — what are you gazing at? 

Ida. 

It is the tall white stranger we saw before. 
The silent man of sombre mien and garb. 
With large, dark eyes that seemed to wish to weep, 
And face white as mamma's sweet hand. You know 
He stopped and watched us while we were at play, 
Nor said a word, but seemed somehow so sad 
That I felt I should like to speak, but then 
He was so still and cold, I shook for fear. 

Alfred. 

I would not mind ; he will not trouble us ; 
We can, you know, hit him with some small stone 
And then run straight for home, for it is time, 
If we shall get our dinner waiting for us. 



III. 



The Stranger. 
It cannot be ; I dare not mar with change 
The calm seclusion of my life, — the still 
Unbroken sweep of waters guarding it. 
My life has all the magical repose 
Of some sweet island in a pale lagoon ; 
The ripples break upon the clear green waters. 
The mainland lies afar enwrapped in mists, 



22 EXILE. 

The air is of a soft, mixed hue, not bright 

As where the beast conglomerate, mankind. 

The many-headed life that is but one, 

Each puddled with the soul of each, doth dwell ; 

Even the sun veils here his rigorous splendors, 

And paces with slower step the blue-stretched heavens ; 

The woods are peopled but with cool-eyed blooms 

And slender well-poised ferns ; and here and there 

The white fire of the sudden springs, and birds 

Whose voices are the sounds interfluous thoughts 

Subtly project when several merge in one. 

Conjoining rays in concord of one flame, 

And the long grasses swaying in the wind. 

Here all is peace and intellectual calm ; 

A mild self-centred spot which needs no commerce 

With outward and debasing elements 

To make its joyance ; here I make my home 

And meditate the boundless universe. 

I see unfold the endless leaves of thought, 

The petals rather of the great world-rose. 

Until the inmost heart lies bare ; I see 

Within the multitudinous blood-red folds 

The pygmy tribes of men ; and History 

Is as a silly tale told by the fireside 

When the late night flares in last burst of gladness. 

And soon deep rest shall hold the house ; I see 

The currents of the sap pass down and up. 

The ceaseless potence of ideas great 

That build and break, and at the hidden root 

Great God himself, from whom all comes, who is 

And is not the vast flower, and I am He 

And All, when I ascend these easy heights. 



EXILE. 23 

But nothing foreign may intrude; disturb 

The ambient atmosphere with sullen clouds 

Born of the breath of unrespective soul, 

And the high bliss is dead ; disturb with check 

Of contradiction Thought's unswerving flow, 

And the bemired brown flood reflects no more 

The picture of the sky. Here is my fear ; 

Into pure Contemplation's mystic round 

I may not introduce the passions* whirl. 

And that strange sentiment the fool man calls 

Love; difl'erent by a world's wide interspace 

From Love as known in Thought's dear Heaven. I 

pause ; 
Yet Beauty is this still realm's proper garb, 
The robe external that expresses it. 
And, while concealing, bares its secret heart; 
And she — the lovely child — would be fit sign 
Of its unbroken rest and splendid joy. 
I cannot tell how she possesses me. 
How my conception spheres her changing form. 
As the round sky the centred earth ; she flits 
Into my every thought; her sweet smiles light 
My deepest plunge of search ; and science stern 
Grows easy, and with prodigal outpour 
Endows me with its secrets for her sake. 
It cannot be that in my life's clear song 
Her footsteps should make discord, or her voice 
Not emphasize the surely-uttered words 
That are the very truth of truth in forms 
That are itself externalized. And yet — 
Ah me^I fear lest I, precipitate 
And led by sudden veer of impulse, throw 



24 EXILE. 

A hasty stone into my placid life, 

And harm my safe release from human cares 

With rippled thrills of feeling whose far end 

Mine eyes discern not nor my thought. I pause ; 

When first I saw the grave small face, the eyes 

Quite sad, but clear with some internal flame. 

The lips closed in an ecstasy of dream, 

I felt her as a sure inhabitant 

Of those ideal plains where is Thought's home, 

Or those miraculous vales high Fancy holds, 

The varying image of the things that are. 

Nay, I will not give way to fear ; I dare 

This deed, and quail not at the consequence. , 

She shall go with me ; I will bear her home, 

Engird her with most subtle influences, 

And she will grow the white rose of the world. 

The fairest lady in the worshipping lands, 

A priestess in the virgin fane of Thought, 

Iphigenia of these latter times, 

The marvel of the ages, womanhood's queen, 

Untouched of love or aught that can defile. 

The lyre tuned to the planet's revolutions, 

Star-taught to music, played upon by winds, 

And voicing ocean's ancient mysteries. 

Yea, I will go, and ask her of her friends, — 

They dare not say me nay, I am sure fate, — 

And if I must, my wealth will make me way, 

For in the world of men I needs must use 

Men's implements, although my heart abhors 

Contact with these most foul necessities. 

Yea, she will be to me my shaped expectance. 

My life made clear to sight, thought clothed in form, 



EXILE. 25 

The apex of the pyramidal loveliness, 
Like flame upclimbing skywards, which is my life. 
I dare the high attempt, and build the realm 
Which circles me, past outer might to break, 
Wherein I breathe, clasped hand in hand with God ! 

IV. 

Alfred. 
You do not build — what are you thinking of? 

Ida. 

I watch you, and it gives me more delight, 
For I have no great skill of hand, and still 
My walls and windows fall as fast as risen. 

Alfred. 

This is your house, — four stories high, at least. 
With rounded windows, — say how it pleases you ; 
See, I can make queer figures round the windows 
And over the wide door — now, that looks right ; 
It shall be quite a palace when 'tis done. 

Ida. 
How do you make it all secure ? 

Alfred. 

I know not ; 
It stands just of itself, I think. Here are 
Broad steps in front, and basement windows here ; 

3 



26 EXILE. 

I soon shall finish, and then give it you 
In a long speech. 

Ida. 

And I shall make reply, 
And be all smiles, and say it is too much, 
And nothing I have done deserves return, 
And bow, and seem ashamed till all are gone. 
When I can clap my hands and be plain glad. 

Alfred. 

That will be fun — you girls are smart in speech ; 
I think you must have longer tongues than boys. 
And pointed ones, for you are sharp at times, 
And say what we can find no answer for. 
How do you think a story more would look? 

Ida. 

Take care, or your frail sand-built house will fall ; 
You always go beyond the safety point, 
And are impatient when your labors fail. 

Alfred. 

Yet J will try, and you will sing the song 
Mamma has taught you since we saw this place ; 
For somehow I can build best as you sing, 
And raise my walls in concord with the sound, 
For music is the only thing I know 
Of the strange pranks you often tell me of 
As passing in your brain not like my own. 



EXILE. 27 

Ida (sings). 

I hear the waters call 

Unto me ; 
Into a dream I fall 

Of the sea ; 
I am borne in a slender boat 
To where the jho onset pallors float. 

The white stars in the sky 

Glint and gleam ; 
I hear no voice nor cry. 

Save the stream 
That is bearing me swiftly afar 
Past earth's remotest bound and bar. 

The moon rests on the sea, 

Silver white, 
And shines in strangest glee, 

Subtly bright ; 
I pass to the viewless line 
Where moon and trancid sea combine. 

I am the Lady Moon, 

And the sea, 
I am the dim-toned tune — 

Utterly — 
The waves and the flakes of light 
Making send down the blue-roofed night. 

I die into a dream 

Lighted dim, 
I am, the fitful stream 

Of the hymn 
The Sea and the Moon and the Night 
Fashion for joy and pure delight. 



28 EXILE. 

Alfred. 

There now, 'tis done; did you bring down a doll? 
She should walk in quite splendidly. 

Ida. 

I know not ; 
Here is the little one you do not like. 
You will not have her mount your marble steps ? 

Alfred. 

No ; but you said you meant to lose her soon, 
Or give her to the girl lives next to us. 

Ida. 

And so I do ; but I forgot last time 
I saw her, and I left the homely doll 
In this small apron-pocket unawares. 

Alfred. 

It does not matter. Now I think of it, 
I mean to build a church with lofty spires. 
And pointed windows, like the one we saw 
In the great city, — made as though the stone 
Into fine lace-work everywhere were carved. 

Ida. 

And I shall go sit by the silvered strand, 

And think how each small boat bears thought of me ; 

Fori shall give to every one a dream 

That it will bear, and I shall seem to float 

Out where the great waves toss and writhe, and winds 



EXILE. 29 

Have room to flutter out their widest skirts, 
And freely tread the water's rippled floor. 
I only would it were the wondrous night, 
Set thick with stars, and overruled 
By the sweet lady moon. 

Alfred. 

No, you must stay ; 
I cannot build alone, for if you sit, 
And look on while I work, I can do better. 
And my walls surelier rise. Now if you try. 
You can make buildings too, old castles quaint, 
With rounded peaked towers, or chapels small 
For ladies grave to pray in. 

Ida. 

It is in vain ; 
My hands pull down, I cannot raise a wall. 
But, see, the stranger comes — shall we run home. 
Or go on with our play and mind him not ? 

Alfred. 
Why, let him come, he will not look nor speak. 

The Stranger. 

There is she now at play ; her sweet grave face 
Not lighted by a smile, and her dear eyes 
Abashed beneath the flower-like lids. The sun 
Is glad to play with her gold hair, and make 
A fluctuant aureole about her head. 
How I delight to see her little hands 
Flicker across the sand in white fair gleams, 
And all her motions glad as grace itself ! 

3* 



3© EXILE. 

The lips are parted and I hear low sounds — 

No song — but some dear chaos of dim tones 

That will in time take shape, and be a tune 

Taught by God's angels ; O sweet child, mine own. 

It cannot be that aught save loveliness 

Can bloom or be where thou art — beauty's soul. 

And Heaven grown visible. I have no fear, 

I will go speak to her, although the boy 

Perforce must bring the world into our speech. 

And gloom across our realm of poetry. 

Even as a mountain throws large shadows down 

Where the small waves imprisoning fiery gold 

Weave on the sea the miracle of the song 

The day and wind and waters hold soul-hid. 

Or as a steep and blossomless review 

Frowns with deep shade upon a valley-poem. 

Where the mild violets hide in pallid grass, 

Where the white foam of rivulets blooms to die, 

And all the winds are sweet with endless spring. 

Ida. 

Oh, brother, he is coming — let us go ; 

I fear that he will speak, and my heart beats 

And chokes my breath. I feel afraid and strange; 

I think his voice will be a wizard spell 

To make me do what I desire not — come ! 

We shall return — pray, come — I dare not move 

Save you are near to help. 

Alfred. 

A little while 
And we must start — for you know dinner waits ; 



EXILE. 31 

Meanwhile I purpose finishing my church. 
You are just foolish — let him say his say — 
We need not answer, and he will pass on. 
I am not troubled. 

Ida. 

Nay, but he will speak. 
And his voice cold as are his far-off eyes. 
And his words strange as are his pale calm lips 
Make me afraid or ere I hear. I know 
His deeds and speech will be as fair as friendship, 
Yet I would rather pass him by. 

The Stranger. 

A house — 
And nearly reared a stately church — dear boy. 
Your hands are skilful past the common wont. 
Where learned you this fair craft ? Your sister here 
Gives help with her sweet smile — she labors not — 
Or speaks encouragement with subtle words 
You are most glad to hear. Were I at home 
I might be aid in your exploits of art. 

Alfred. 
I care not for your aid. 

The Stranger. 

But if you knew — 
For I have books wherein tall dwellings stand. 
Made in times past, and wonderful to see, 
White temples shining in the midnoon sun 
On heights that overlook the fair green fields. 



32 EXILE. 

Old palaces made splendid for great kings, 
And ivy-clothed ruins, hoar and quaint. 

Alfred. 

I care not for old books, and reading hard 
For wits like mine to understand. 

The Stranger. 

His rudeness 
Might make me pause — my voice clings to my throat, 
And all my body shakes — 'tis always so 
When I adventure in the outer world, 
Nor dwell secure my soul within. Too late; 
I cannot now refrain who see her face. 
White and lustrous as the one star of eve. 
'Tis not my wish that you should read my book — 
These are fine pictures fit for eyes like yours 
Or your sweet sister's. If I brought my book 
Would you look on it with me ? 

Ida. 

No. 

Alfred, 

I think 
My sister wishes not to speak with you ; 
For you are strange, and not like men we know. 

The Stranger. 

And yet I have desire to hear her voice. 
She is not unlike a dear girl of mine 
About her age, and slender-shaped as she. 
Whom I saw placed in the cold, rain-wet grave, 



EXILE. 33 

And I was left to weep. Dear gold -haired child, 

How would it please to come with me ? — my home 

Is in the far-off hills ; it stands alone 

In a vast garden, where the largest flowers 

Blossom and burn the summer through, and winds 

Blow languid with the weight of perfumes, where 

Under deep trees the winding pathways lead 

To lakes set like clear stars on the green sky 

Of grassy miles, where in the solemn shades 

Of old oak woods the hours are filled with dreams, 

And if you shut the outer sense you hear 

The music that is played in fairy-land. 

How would you like to go, and be mine own, 

A daughter in my house of golden spells. 

Where all you wished would speed from out your soul, 

Swift changed to flowers for you to hold in hand. 

Where you should be a queen — what say you, child ? 

Ida. 

Oh, brother, it is time; I shake for fear — 

He means to take me with him — give your hand. 

Alfred. 

And I shall find a stone to throw at him j 

But then he talks like you ; my brain turns round 

With wondering what he means. 

The Stranger. 

You are not going? 

Let us walk by the sea, and watch the waves. 
And see the fish gleam through the waters clear ; 
And I have tales to tell you of the past, — 



34 EXILE. 

The days when fairies hunted in the grass 
On chargers small as are the gold-green flies 
That star the air with fire ; or of the days 
When knights clad all in steel set thick with gold 
Traversed the land to break enchanters' spells, 
And free the long-haired damsels kept in chains 
And held in noisome dungeons, where the light 
Poured not its opulence of gifts; or days 
When dryads shy lurked in the rustling woods, 
And hoofed satyrs danced when old Pan played, 
And through the roads of stars Diana sped. 
The maiden-goddess white as are your thoughts. 
My small Diana come to earth again. 

Alfred. 

The stone just grazed him, we must turn and run, 
He might strike with that slender stick of his. 
I feel much grieved I did not hurt him sore, 
But my hand trembled, and I could not throw. 

Ida. 

Now let us speed as quickly as we may ; 
I would not have you hurt him, but I fear, 
And shall be glad to be at home again, 

Alfred. 
Turn now and look — how his eyes follow us. 

Ida. 

How white he is, and seems most deeply sad ! 
If I but had more heart, I would go back. 
And speak to him, and beg him not to mind, 



EXILE. 35 

And listen to one story, but I shiver so 

I must get home ; come, brother, hasten on. 

V. 

The Stranger. 

I stand here trembling like a feeble boy, 

As if the sweep of some experience. 

Soul-shattering, and remoulding life in forms 

That make the aspect of the universe 

A face of deeper truth, had come upon me. 

Had torn through all my body's space, and left 

Me changed and alien to my former self. 

My heart beats, and my breath comes quick and loud, 

I seem to sigh, not breathe ; it is all vain ; 

I dare not enter those forbidden haunts 

Where general man builds homes, plies myriad tasks, 

Plays games with vari -colored loves, seeks ends 

Of transient glow, and on the fitful breaths 

Of friends erects frail dwellings mutable. 

I am so lightly swung on tenuous nerves. 

That a faint wind that lifts no gossamer 

In land of most men's lives, shakes me with shock 

Of earthquake, and confuses me with fear 

Lest my demesne in earth's firm-poised extent 

Will fall to dust, and past the reach of things 

Be cast to realm of nothingness, and fall 

Within annihilation's grasp. I fear 

The converse where swift wit is masterful, 

I tremble when I see the gathering crowd 

Prepare to darken day with their weak speech ; 

Not fear, lest their base acts can work me harm. 



36 EXILE. 

Or futile thoughts bemire my statued calm, 

But natural shrinking from their lower mind, 

And innate horror of the stagnant pools 

Wherein they dwell of thought and slavish hope ; 

Wherefore I needs must pause ; how if I bind 

These freest limbs with hateful bondages, 

Break the blue-skied and sweet-aired leisure's calm 

Under whose roof I pass mild days with clouds, 

Strange loves and curious hates will quickly frame — 

For these two are yoke-fellows, never one 

Appears unless the other walks full near. 

If she would give up all her simple past, 

Leave all behind that made her life before. 

Wash from her memory what but brings it pain. 

That on the white expanse of her large soul 

I might write splendid thoughts of Heaven and God, 

Bring her where shine the bright and changeless stars, 

That in her lucid eyes their shapes might dwell, 

That in her lucid mind the fiery spiritual sun 

Of high philosophy might rise and burn. 

And she would dwell in domes not built of hands. 

But every stone a thought miraculous, 

Each window a clear glass to deepest truth. 

Each chamber some great dream of poet-sage. 

Each door give access to the unsearched fields 

Where bloom the eternal flowers that God still frames 

Lest man his creature make an end of things, 

And Niobe-wise proclaim his larger scope. 

And dare rail at his power ! I tread the verge ; 

It may not be — the outer clamor sounds — 

It may not be ; the brother is a storm 

Whose wrath makes dark the time I dream upon. 



EXILE. 37 

And in the mother's eyes no doubt are tears — 
It may not be ; for I cannot evoke 
From slumber in a mother's deepmost heart 
Sorrow and longing and their myriad tribes. 
Pain is but of the world ; and I would not 
Stain my cleansed hands with implements of woe ; 
Even to think thereon makes my heart beat, 
And the unused tears to flow ; I feel 
That at this price I purchased noble peace — 
The world and its most clamorous dignities, 
Its golden pomps, its strong ambition's steeps, 
Its whirlwinds of applause that seize the soul 
And bear it to a realm of passioned joy. 
Its friendships that have something sweet and good. 
Its love that builds an isle of maddest bliss. 
Mingling the soul and frame in keen delight 
Of frozen fire, as if the summer's heat 
Should mix — a miracle — with winter's chill. 
And from their clasp leaped forth an ecstasy 
That joined their several joys — all these — all these — 
I threw away as of small price or cost 
That I might have ideal calm, the peace 
Which is akin to God's, wherein swift dreams 
Pursue great thoughts, and I am still at one 
With the deep life that is in all that is. 
Nay — I give her up \ to breed great woe 
In a dear mother's heart, a little one 
To bear from the fireside where smiles and talk 
Illumine more than the quick-leaping flames, 
And ere the lights are set the shadows' play 
Is weird and mutable as fancy's games 
In children's hearts, is too hard task for me. 

4 



38 EXILE. 

I consecrate anew life's brief remains 
To clearest meditation, and those thoughts 
That hold the universe in scope, to hopes 
That lift humanity aloft to heights 
Where the faint noise of struggle, grief, and pain 
Shall change to music as things over-lived ; 
For in the memory's twilight, one by one, 
The stars of long-done deeds arise, and grief 
Outworn flames with a steady silver fire, 
Till the vast night of the unforgotten past 
Engirds with solemn splendor. I consecrate, 
I consecrate, O God, my years to thee; 
She is most fair, and I would fain see glow 
The fire of grandest truths in her pure eyes ; 
But all this may not be, and I return 
To my used solitude ; to silent books 
Wherein I pour my soul, and recreate 
The minds majestic that upbore the world. 
The imperial intellects that swerved time's course, 
The living wills that were the seeds of acts 
That will not end save with the end of things. 

VI. 

Ida. 

Here let us rest awhile ; I can no more. 
And we are surely past his reach. 

Alfred. 

You shake. 
And you are white, and though you do not weep, 
Your eyes seem as of one whose tears must flow. 



EXILE. 39 



Ida. 



I cannot weep although I would ; 1 feel 

Quite strange \ was there such cause for us to fear ? 

Alfred. 

I do not think it ; I had stood my ground, 
But 'twas through you I acted as if need were 
To fight him off; now that I think on it, 
You were quite foolish, as you often are, 
And with you near I do beyond my will 
Things I should not attempt alone. 

Ida. 

Oh, brother, 
You must not talk so ; ah, I weep at last ; 
Yet you are right as I so frequent find you. 
My heart is sad when I fall on to think 
How my weak fears broke in on several joys ; 
How white he seemed, and his voice shook alway 
As if to speak were hard ; if we had gone 
Along the shore, and heard him tell his tales, 
It had been better; yet I cannot tell 
How some great dread took hold of me ; I think 
If he should come again, I should repeat 
What now I grieve at, having done. 

Alfred. 

. Well— well- 
It matters not, sweet sister, let us on. 



40 EXILE. 



Ida. 



We are not far from home ; we need not run, 
And when we gain the path that rounds the hill, 
The house will be in sight and our way clear. 

Alfred. 

See, sister, how the grass is full of color. 
Low-drooping blossoms, and the snap-dragon. 
And pale pink flowers I know not how to name. 

Ida. 

We can rest here awhile ; you do not deem 
That he will follow — I am yet afraid. 

Alfred. 

Here is a smooth white stone, where you can sit, 
And the thick-leaved tree makes pleasant shade. 
He will not come, and we are so near home 
That they would know our cries if trouble rose. 

Ida. 

'Tis so, indeed, and while we rest us here, 
You can cull perfect flowers, and clover leaves. 
And the long grass with delicate-woven top, 
And I will bind them in a sweet bouquet 
For mother ; for you bear in mind she said 
That wild flowers made her dream of happy days. 
And seemed more tender than the flowers of home. 
That made your heart beat, but these gentle blooms 
Brought back the times when she was young like you 
And full of glee. 



EXILE, 41 



Alfred. 



It is a happy thought ; 
Meanwhile you can recover from your scare, 
And need not frighten mother with a tale 
Of terrible nothing, for he meant no harm. 
And when I see him, I will speak to him, 
And ask him of the pictures and the book. 

Ida. 

I shall not easily forget my fear. 

But here is your bouquet, the flowers well set 

In a green border, and the spires of grass 

In feathery tufts o'erhanging with thin shades 

The pallid colors under. Let us on. 

Alfred. 

We reach the turn of road, and mother stands 
Looking down the tree-bordered length for us. 
She answers my quick wave of hat — come, run. 

Ida. 

No, I must walk ; I am all tired and hot, 
And now I am to tell, my cheeks burn red, 
And my strange fear renews. 

Alfred. 

You need not speak ; 
I will relate the startling thing for you, 
As you are wont to make the little great. 
And out of a slim trifle weave a tale 
That frightens mother, makes her white. 

4* 



42 EXILE. 

Ida. 

No, no, 
You cannot tell, for I have more to say 
Than you know of. 

Mother. 

You have been very long. 
Three times or more I stood at door to gaze. 
And wondered what detained my little ones. 
But you remembered me — thanks for the flowers. 

Ida. 

Oh, dear mamma ! 

Mother. 

What ails my little girl ? 
Have you been running, for you seem quite tired, 
And shake as if miuch effort had unnerved, 
Or set you trembling like a slender branch 
A bird has leaped from ? 

Alfred. 

Let me tell the tale ; 
I shall not take so long, for going straight 
I reach the end far quicker. 

Ida. 

Oh, mamma, 
I am not tired, but he so frightened me. 
That I must weep ; and yet I feel deep shame ; 
For he was kind, and meant no harm ; I spoiled 
His wished enjoyment, and kind brother's too. 



EXILE, 43 

Mother. 

My child, you need not weep; I kiss your cheek, 
And in my arms fear may not find a place. 
My little one, come, ease yourself, be calm ; 
So, lay your head against me \ tell me now 
Who he may be, and what adventure strange 
Stirred in your heart such fear. 

Ida. 

I am ashamed ; 
He was quite good, and brother wished to stay. 

Alfred. 

You need not speak ; we met the black-clothed man, 

I told you how he gazed two days ago. 

He came while we were both absorbed in play, 

Looked on awhile with large surprised eyes, 

Then praised my houses, spoke of picture-books, 

But sister felt such fear, we ran away. 

Ida. 

There is much more ; he spoke of his far home. 
And all the splendors it enshrined, and asked, 
Would I not go with him ? It is most strange. 
But I felt quite as though I must obey ; 
I tremble now to think of it. 

Mother. 

Dearest, 
He spoke but as one might in jest, no doubt ; 
You cannot think he meant it otherwise. 



44 EXILE. 

Remember that but just a day ago 

The friend you love so used the self-same words, 

And you laughed as you clung to me. 

Alfred. 

But I, 
Dear mother, threw a stone at him that hit ; 
I do not deem it hurt — would that it had ! 

Ida. 
You are too rude by far. 

Mother. 

Well, dry your eyes, 
And now forget it all. You are at home, 
And you shall go no more along the beach. 
Unless some older friend companions you. 
And yet my little girl must cease these fears, 
And bear a stouter heart. 

Father. 

Delay not more, 
Go in, the dinner waits the truants twain. 

Alfred. 
Father, was I far wrong because I threw ? 

Father. 

We shall not speak about it further now ; 
Go in, and at more leisure we can talk. 
And penetrate the matter through and through, 
Although remember still to play the part 



EXILE. 45 

Of a courageous brother apt to help. — 

What shall be done with our sweet sensitive plant 

That shuts when the breeze freshens? She was not 

made 
For earth, but some ideal virginal realm, 
Some land of solid dream, whose air is song, 
And all whose life is simple peace and joy. 
Perchance she came from thence to light our home, 
As a white lily lights the forest's gloom. 
Or through a rent of cloud a mild star shines. 
And saves the night from storm. Alas for us. 
If we have not the power of wisest love 
To bind her to us here. 

Mother. 

Speak not such thoughts ; 
They clothe a real fear in garb fantastic, 
A fear I shrink to put in words or form. 
I drive it to some far recess of mind. 
And lull it with the melodies of hope. 
Till it falls on light sleep. I cannot think 
Of aught befalling our most gentle child 
Save life's divinest ministerings. 

Father. 

Forgive 
If I have roused the woe you sang asleep. 
I would that life withheld not high success. 
That ever flies my best-adjusted aim. 
For her dear sake I would have liberal wealth. 
And that fine grasp of possibilities 
That should assure to sight her lightest wish ; 



46 EXILE. 

For she is fashioned in so noble mould 
That no result of pride or baneful scorn 
Could yet ensue upon her gaining all 
That widest life can give. 

Mother. 

The same sad chord ; 
I bid you now again renounce the strain. 
She will have love to wait upon her steps, 
And make the frowning face of time relax, 
And change to smiles ; surely that is enough. 
In your strong hands and gentle as great strength's, 
She will be safe, and grow a human flower. 
That makes the space she dwells in full of joy. 

Father. 

If it prove so, it will not be to me 

The high result is due. A sudden thought ; 

'Tis he, indeed. 

Mother. 

You reproduce the child 
In obscure hints of he. You speak of whom? 

Father. 

You know the sad recluse, the scholar mild, 
Who dwells in outskirts of our busy town, 
I saw him yestermorn in reverie 
Pacing the beach, and wrapt in mystic dreams, 
Scarce like a denizen of our world. 

Mother. 

Ah, so ! 

I do not wonder at the child's affright ; 



EXILE. 47 

His cold calm eyes, and utter-abstract mien, 
Fill me with dread when at rare times I go 
Past the great garden which the summer makes 
A gem miraculous set upon the ring 
Of our dear town. 

Father. 

I cannot longer doubt, 
He is the man, and we must have great care 
Of our dear girl's play on the beach ; her frame 
Can bear but ill these gusts of feeling strong 
That are beyond the wont of her bright youth. 

VII. 

The Stranger. 

Here let me rest; no shore is now in sight 

Save as on either side a faint blue line. 

No boat but mine pursued by the white foam 

Cleaves the gray waters : I will ship my oars, 

And let the boat drift with the wind and current. 

The silence is so deep that I can hear 

As 'twere the sound of time as it fleets by. 

The flow of that unseen and mightier ocean. 

Whereon the barks of states and lives and times 

Have been borne forth to death or sure decay. 

Beneath its voiceless waves the wrecks are hid 

Of hopes that oversoared its blue of sky, 

And stood at gaze on God ; of joys that crushed 

The whole world as clear grapes upon the lip. 

And drank intoxication of red wine 

That made the soul, large as the universe, 



48 EXILE. 

Scorn the earth's round as a child's outgrown toy ; 

Of fierce disdain upon whose lofty ridge 

Stood poised the soul in utter rectitude, 

And showed the world where Right shone as a sun. 

Upon this dizzy verge the Present stands ; 

I look adown the abyss, and see the whirl 

Of the fast-vanishing Past, and mightiest thrones 

Of noblest virtues, images of dreams 

Supernal, and extremest heights of thought, 

Flicker like stars across that nether sky. 

Burn, bicker, flash, are seen no more forever ; 

And like a mist wherein the strong winds strive, 

The Future rolls before, and underfoot 

Solidifies, while all that is, is not, 

Down-sunken in the gulf that waits for all. 

O soul, that boldest in thy reach of thought 

Time with its vast contents, and teeming space. 

Thou need'st not tremble while the spectacle 

Furls and unfurls, appears, appeareth not, — 

The immutable mutation, changeless change, 

That in its variability hath rest. 

Is there no permanent ? no higher thought 

Wherein the riddle answers its own quest? 

Nay, here are visions born of corporal eye. 

Fair shapes the senses build and break, a world 

That is but as the gazer looks upon 't. 

Eternity is that concentring point 

Wherein all rays of being merge, the Now 

Born of the Past, and holding the To-Come 

As seed for ripening ; there, O soul, dwell thou ; 

Nay, dwell not, rather be thou that great thought. 

And so become the circling Universe, 



EXILE. 49 

Transfuse the flow of things with thine own self, 

And win essential immortality. 

The light breaks through the clouds with this deep 

thought, 
As though the outer symboUed in great joy 
The rapture of discovery ; 'tis well ; 
As on my soul floods the wide light of truth, 
So flood, O sun, thy realm with radiancy. 
It is a fair new day ; I call it fair, 
Although the sombre gray of possible rain 
Pervades the air, and the impetuous sun 
Is shorn of half his glory or ere it falls. 
Look to the hollow globe of sky — how fair ! 
In mass on mass of softest pearly tint. 
And narrowing circles to the central point. 
The mountainous clouds climb the steep curve of sky ; 
See there the space of unveiled central blue, 
Intense in brightness past the power of words, 
The fleece-like clouds in sweetly-broken shreds 
Environing it ; the waters lie below, 
A rippled floor of sober shine ; ah me. 
The wondrous air, most clear, most full of glow. 
And every cloud and every fitful wave 
Is dowered with perfect color ; so I drift 
Through the pale Paradise of simple Truth. 
I mind me of the old philosopher 
Who saw the pure Ideas in their dance. 
Prefiguring the worlds, and, rapt in dreams. 
Beheld the plains whereon the assembled souls 
Choose lives to languish through beneath the moon. 
Can it then be that on the upper air, 
As on the ocean's waves, green shores advance, 

5 



50 EXILE. 

And beings dwell whose drink is some fine ether, 

Who scorn our gross embodiment, the garb 

Wherein our souls are prisoned, and who are 

Companions for the often-visiting Gods ? 

I poise me on yon cloud and dare to dream 

How life is shaped in that cool, placid realm, 

A life of thought, clear, passionless, remote, 

Unvexed by winds of fierce emotion, calm, 

And resolute to pierce the core of things. 

Bathed in the nearer sunlight, unbestained 

With exhalations of our atmosphere. 

But lo ! I dream in sooth ; not of the cloud 

Is the pure vigor that has rapt my thought, 

Not based on mists that from earth's ocean come. 

And are but outwalls of its sullen realm ; 

Above the height of air and concave sky 

That limits mind of terrene men, I soar 

Into the thinner ether, which to breathe 

Slays the dull body's weight, and robes the soul 

In nudity of clear expression, form 

That is Idea's self; but see, I drift 

Close to the shore, and the sun's burnished rays 

Clothe with light fierce as many-flashing steel 

A single spot in the encincturing landscape, 

All else being wrapped in shadow pale, subdued; 

Like gems the sweetly-shapen trees drink in 

And then reflect the partial splendor ; a path 

Winds through the gold-green arch of greeting trees, 

And at the avenue's end a white small house. 

And children at their play. It cannot be ! 

And yet the thrill of pleasure that unmans me 

Cannot deceive ! That purpose will not down ! 



EXILE, 51 

And now I hear her laugh ; it is the voice, 

And as she moves, I see the childish grace 

That has a charm such as a queen of elves 

Might hold her subjects with ; I do not err. 

She penetrates by mystic accident 

My solitude ; alas ! I hoped to tear 

My roots of life out from the alien soil 

They deeply clung to, dreams where she was queen. 

Yet must I be a slave to whim and hope, 

Be fettered by desire for earthly good. 

Care for some waif of rude humanity, 

Be tossed at will on waves of bitter love ? 

But I must think aright ; the experiment 

Is worth endeavor ; I should make the girl 

The pearl, the crown of womanhood ; all Time 

Her hand should wear as some slight ornament 

That emphasizes beauty ; secret lore 

From the unfathomed Orient's store, and grasp 

Of Nature that makes her obey the will. 

With those high truths the sages hid in myth 

Lest the profane should read, I give for dower; 

I may not yield : I will resume the search, 

And bear my bird unto my eager hearth, 

Not so that she will dwell there sad and caged. 

But that her song, grown strong with justest use 

(The bounds of her sweet home being overpassed. 

And youth's much need of wisdom's guidance done). 

Will fill the reaches of the world's wide wood 

With more than native fire of song, and rapture 

Wherein the soul finds her primeval peace. 

A joy, a fury seizes me, a bliss 

That has not torn me since my vanished youth, 



52 EXILE. 

Since the fierce days when in the whirl of life 

I plunged as a strong swimmer in the waves 

Whose reckless foam burns gold in the high sun. 

I swiftly seek the shore, I cannot fail, 

It is a work set for me by the years. 

Unto this height I clomb from whence all things 

Are but slight elements in the vast view, 

The oversight that merges in a point 

The multitudinous universe, that has 

The All engrasped, of knowledge absolute 

The peak and summit ; hither my soul has flown. 

That it might ope the doors of some deep mind, 

Might pierce the darkness of intelligence 

That glooms it round, and, having shown the truth. 

Arm it for fight with men — my task, indeed, 

Save for my feeble flesh, and halting breath — 

And so my world-work will be well fulfilled. 

My little prophetess, your melodies 

Will pierce the slumberous ears of the old world. 

Awake the time to knowledge of high truth. 

Give wings to cruel-fettered Liberty ; 

For I shall die, but you will be my soul. 

To shed my thoughts as leaves upon the winds, 

As rays of light upon the air, or rain 

From highest clouds upon the thirsty fields, 

My little singer, whose deep thought am I ! 

VIII. 

Ida. 

Stir not, brother, but watch the brown small bird 
That stands here in the grass ; note his clear eye. 



EXILE. 53 

See how he moves his lissome neck ; and now 
He flits upon the tree's swayed branch, and gazes ; 
There, he is gone, a brown speck in the air, 
Cleaving his way as the slim fish the sea. 

Alfred. 

Father, when shall we go into the town ? 

Is it your wish to have the boat made ready ? 

Father. 

It is not time j I wish to stay awhile. 
My book has yet some pages to be read, 
And I am here so pleased with the cool peace 
That I shall hardly care to go. 

Alfred. 

Well, then. 
May I go out alone ? 

Mother. 

Pray, be content. 
And sister soon shall go with you. 

Alfred. 

This tires me ; 
You all have books, or Ida watches birds. 
Or, stretched upon the grass, looks at the flowers. 
I know not whither I may turn. 

Ida. 

Dear brother. 
Look up into the sky. High overhead 
The thick clouds seem asleep, but under them 



54 EXILE. 

Thin films, most white and pure, float on the wind, 
And where the sunlight falls, they softly shine, 
As if all through them flashed a sudden joy, 
And they are lighted as a face with smiles. 

Alfred. 

It is a pretty sight ; the large clouds break. 
And the thin shreds float on, showing the sky's 
Pale blue through their faint woof. 

Ida. 

Come, play ; 
The little clouds will be our messengers. 
And bear our thoughts away, what do you think ? 

Alfred. 

A silly game ; but as I needs must stay, 
'Twill do to pass the time. 

Mother. 

Now, that is sullen ; 
Besides the day grows hot, and on the water 
The strong sun beats unhindered, save for the shades 
The swift clouds throw. 

Alfred. 

But in the boat 'tis cool; 
For -the large wind has play, and calms the heat. 

Ida. 

On with our game. I see a slender waif 
Float on the wind like a white fairy skiff; 
I bid it bear for me a beam of light 



EXILE, 55 

To fall upon a lady's finger-ring, 

And call from sleep the fire and gold are there. 

Alfred. 

I give that large white bark with back-blown pennon 
A wind to hold, whence it will flutter loose 
Against the small sail glittering far away, 
That the swayed boat may skim the yielding waves 
With speed to make one glad. 

Ida. 

Mamma, you speak ; 
You send the dearest wishes, and 'tis joy 
To have you mix with us in play. 

Mother. 

I send 
Upon that highest cloud a golden dream, 
A dream that may come true, a dream of love, 
That grows to bright reality — for whom ? 
For the pale stranger that you met and feared. 

Alfred. 
Now, father, 'tis your turn. 

Father. 

If I shall play, 
I send upon that swiftest cloud a Thought, 
A Truth, that it may poise above the head 
Of the pale student, flash through his tossed brain. 
Lighting the white transparent face with flame. 
And making clear the mystery he pursued 
For weary years with swift discovery. 



56 EXILE. 

Alfred. 

I see afar a cloud with wings outspread 
Quite like a bird ; I hang upon its neck, 
My carrier-pigeon's neck, an unseen missive, 
That all the boys may learn of the wide world, 
How glad it is to feel the wind and spray 
Dash on your face when out far on the sea. 

Ida. 

I see a cloud all fervent with the sun. 
Washed with the light, and sailing slow afar j 
Into that downy nest I set a bird. 
The bird of a sweet song, that will be borne 
Back to our home, and there abide for us, 
Till in the winter time it melts in tone. 
And our rapt thoughts are carried back again 
To this sweet shore, to this faint-sounding sea. 
To the fair rose-glen just beyond the house. 
To those bright flakes of fire upon the deep. 

Alfred. 

Upon that great white ball I place a statue. 
King-like and crowned ; let him compel the nations 
To hold our land in reverence. 

Ida. 

On the verge, 
Where the horizon gray curves to the sea, 
A thinnest vapor speeds; 'tis scarce a cloud, 
And more like light slow-hardening; in its woof 
I mix I know not what, a drop of soul. 



EXILE. 5 7 

That out of it a rain may fall on hearts 
Fulfilled of pain, and they may quickly wake 
As from a dream, and be mild-glad again. 

Alfred. 

I have enough ; father, read us a tale, 

From the old book you were so glad to find, 

And much surprised at yesterday, of how 

The king went hunting through the enchanted wood, 

And found his lady changed into a vine. 

Mother. 

A happy thought ; we all are just in mood 
To hear \ and those rich Oriental plays 
Need to be read when we, in tune with nature. 
Feel not abrupt the change from daily mind 
To that sublimed and mystic consciousness. 

Ida. 

I sit upon the grass next to mamma ; 
It is as well as going in the boat. 

Alfred. 

'Twill do awhile ; but I prefer to row, 

And fight the wind, and cut right through the wave, 

And know how strong I am. 

Father. 

I have the place ; 
Shall I go o'er the part we read last time? 



58 EXILE. 

Mother. 

A pleasant thought ; but lo ! a stranger stands 
At the path's turn, and is at point to come. 

Ida. 

I must into the house ; for it is he, 
And I yet fear to meet him. 

Alfred. 

What foolishness ! 
You said you would be braver, and you blench 
The first time you are tried j I mean to stay 
And hear him speak. 

Father. 

No, children, get you in. 
Or play in the green field behind the house ; 
We shall remain to build acquaintanceship. 

Ida. 

Come, brother, like the dear good boy you are ; 
I tremble when I see him. I will play 
Any game that you like, come but with me. 

The Stranger. 

Your pardon if my suddenness offend. 

And yet I deemed a fellow-townsman's right 

Would fail not recognition. 

Mother. 

You are welcome, 
Pray you be seated ; it is a pleasant thing 



EXILE. 59 

To meet away from home co-dwellers there ; 
It gives a sense of shattered lonesomeness, 
And strips the place of strangeness. 

The Stranger. 

Yet strangeness surely 
Can have slight hold where friendship pitches tent, 
And family cheer sets up abiding place. 

Father. 

We freely bid you be that cheer's partaker, 

And it will give us joy if we have power 

To make you feel at home, so be there's need. 

The Stranger. 

You make me welcome to far better home, 

I deem, than the outer can build up ; in books, 

Where greatest minds have reared an unseen world, 

That is unto the things we see as soul, 

A nobler dwelling is, more permanent. 

More native to our best capacities. 

Father. 

Into that realm you will be worthy guide ; 
Report that lives on lips of wisest men 
Holds little error, and we know to you 
That realm's each flower-lit glade, each greenest nook 
Of ancient wood, its smooth white sands of shore. 
Stray slopes of blossom-joy in mountain folds. 
High table-lands that rule the unmeasured fields, 
All places of deep thought, and those hid founts 
Of feeling where to drink opes the soul's eyes 



6o EXILE. 

To occultest mysteries, are as good friends : 
We shall have joy to tread upon your steps. 

The Stranger. 

Yet vague repute still speaks with too large sound ; 
For through the yielding air the spoke word spreads, 
And reaches ear with loud reverberation, 
As a weak king enpanoplied in gold, 
And wearing reflex glow of retinue, 
May seem a very Caesar. 

Mother. 

But the clear page 
Whose magic letters hide a visible truth. 
And are of might to fuse an alien soul 
In noblest gladness, speaks more loud than fame 
The sentences the latter utters. 

The Stranger. 

Be it so : 
I dare belie not the deep work of years ; 
For I have trodden many paths of thought. 
Pursued to their far haunts evanishing truths, 
Found ways to disentangle thinnest woofs 
Of the arch-worker, spirit, gazed upon 
The elements wherefrom his world is made, 
And watched him at his labors till I knew 
Some deepest secrets of his handicraft. 
And took his tools, and furthered his results. 
But 'tis not of myself I mean to speak, 
Forgive the self-love of a lonely man, 



EXILE. 61 

Who joins too little converse with his kind 

To mould his speech to their accredited fashion. 

Mother. 

It always is our valued privilege 

To step aside from the accustomed ways, 

And with great sages meditate the world, 

Not in its semblance, marvellous deceit. 

But as it is to the opened eye of soul, 

That visions not this realm of sense and time, • 

But the essential whole which is the life. 

And in whose self-recurrent pulse all things. 

All times, all histories, all human thoughts. 

Are points of fact wherefrom it ever builds 

Its mighty fabric — nay, I speak but ill, 

Not it, but He who is the Life of Life, 

And Soul of Soul. 

Father. 

Go not into those depths ; 
The young day laughs, the gray clouds break away. 
The sun points to the sea, a wealth of smiles. 
And gives command with sweetest tyranny 
To yield to it our wondrous molten souls, 
Breaking in luminous ripples of fleet joys. 
And ever-changing gleams of lightsomeness. 

The Stranger. 

A trip in yonder boat were not amiss ; 
Out to the central bay, afar from land. 
In places where the many rarely come. 
And the wide loneliness of sea and sky 

6 



62 EXILE. 

Engulfs you in its clearness ; underneath 

The fluent waters, overhead the viewless air, 

Away from all solidity, the soul — 

A joy past earthly words subtly to frame — 

Convinced of its eternity, and freed. 

Or glad-forgetful, of its body-chains. 

The world and all that is a fixed mere point. 

Whereon it bird-like is light-poised awhile. 

Mother. 

Your words bring to my mind the poet's words — 

His of the fiery soul, whose home was air. 

And whose deep heart was torn with this world's woes 

That reddened his fierce song's absolving flow ; 

You know the verses well : ''I love all waste 

And solitary places, where we taste 

The pleasure of believing what we see 

Is boundless as we wish our souls to be." 

Father. 

That poet seems a favorite ; strange to me. 
For he is mainly read and loved of men. 

The Stranger. 

But in the realm of mind all severance dies. 
There oneness dwells, no barren monotone. 
But unit-life ensphering all diverse. 
Surely in thought the man or Avoman dies. 
And simple human reasserts itself. 

Father. 

I cry you mercy — for the noble day 

Still bids me bathe in its circumfluous sea ; 



EXILE. 63 

I would but breathe and be, so wonderful 
The golden clearness governs me. 

Mother. 

And I 
Would give you thanks \ I care not overmuch 
For those diversities our crude life frames, 
And dwell by preference on those subtle hints 
Of inner calm in whose mild atmosphere 
All storms, absorbed as 'twere into the sun, 
Yield place to grander forces. 

The Stranger. 

Hark ! a laugh 
Rings clear across the air — your child's, I doubt. 

Father. 
Our little girl's whom you perchance have seen. 

The Stranger. 

I met two children playing in the sand, 

A strong, stout boy, of a courageous mien, 

And masculine eye, that dared the total world, 

Companioned by a golden-haired sweet girl, 

On whose pure face pure dreams had left their glow, 

In whose wide eyes sat an unspotted soul, 

Looking in strangeness on this lower realm. 

As troubled with some unacquaintanceship, 

And yet at point to dower it with its love. 

Mother. 
Our children build a world within the world, 
And we together are a spiritual isle, 



I 



64 EXILE. 

Engirt by the wide sea of all mankind, 

An individual happiness, indeed. 

But drawing life from the universal soil. 

The Stranger. 

No doubt you have the secret ; I have sought. 
But cannot say, have found ; I feel the feud ; 
In solitude the shapes of grandest thoughts 
Float in pure light before mine inner eyes ; 
But on the rapture of high meditation 
There supervenes a mighty loneliness ; 
And yet the world of men I shudder from, 
And know not how to bear myself in it. 

Father. 

Perchance, love holds the key ; forget oneself. 
Bind life with other lives, and the wide sky 
Is clear of clouds. 

The Stranger, 

I deem your words are true ; 
I would bestow my wealth's large sovereignties 
On others ; the power I grasp, so vast, so strong, 
I am not apt to wield ; no doubt young hands, 
Made strong by will suffused of truest thought, 
Might take the full nihility of wealth, 
And bare the eternal statue lurking there. 

Mother. 

What better use of wealth than personal grace 
Wrought in the soul by studious hold of books. 
And making beautiful the transient spot 
Wherein we dwell? Think you not so with me? 



EXILE. 65 

The Stranger. 

Experience answers no. I would have one — 
A child — a soul unharmed with life as yet — 
To whom might fall the dower of perfect freedom ; 
She should have space to grow as grows a flower, 
Fed by each wind full-freighted with God's stores, 
Bathed in the light of his unceasing suns, 
Taking from earth the best it has to give. 
It were a task to soothe the approach of age, 
And rob grim death of terror. I should live 
In my sweet pupil. 

Father. 

For you not hard to find, 
I deem. 

Mother. 

A pure desire well worth success. 

The Stranger. 

You have a child — a lovely golden girl — 
And I — I might confer great benefits on her ; 
I am alone — I have not friends — but much — 
Much else you know of — you are townsman mine. 

Father. 

Your words are difficult to understand. 

You cannot mean 

Mother. 

You speak of our bright girl ? 
You would have her ? take her from mother's side ? 
I cannot listen longer — let me go. 

6^ 



66 EXILE. 

Father. 

Sweet wife, be calm ; here is some mystery; 
I am not clear in what is said, nor you ; 
Explain yourself more fully, we would hear. 

The Stranger. 

Forgive — I cannot now — I will return. 

I am so little used to converse — I will go — 

Yet ponder you my words — it will be well. 

She will be queen — nor of the world alone — 

But reign in the white land of intellect, 

A sovereign woman, marvel of her times, 

A light to burn adown the dusky road 

Along which move the ages newly risen, 

A fire to inflame in all men's hearts to come 

Fierce love of truth, and all that is the best. 

Another virgin giving to these sad latter times 

A spiritual birth of deepest thought and hope, 

In whose unceasing current whoso bathes 

Will be reborn in inmost soul — but lo ! 

I speak wild words, yet not words void of truth. 

Forgive — consider all — for her behoof. 

I will return. 

Mother. 

He is not right in mind ; 
» I feel as I could weep — for him — for me — 
I know not well. What meant his passioned words? 
Tear from my side my little loving girl, 
Who needs a mother's hand, a mother's heart. 
Whose soul would flutter in his gilded cage 
As some bird newly caught, pining for wood 



EXILE. 67 

And cool upbearing winds? I am not clear 
I seize his sense. 

Father. 

Take peace unto yourself; 
He has lived long alone, and knows not well 
How men are linked together, hence his strangeness. 
Pity for him I beg who has torn his roots 
Out from the general soil, and so must bear 
An alien's part within the unheeding world. 

IX. 

The Stranger. 

Shall I succeed ? The doubt obtrudes itself; 

I have been wrong, and clearly see wherein. 

Thought is not solitary, rather grows 

From contact of all souls ; you break the charm. 

And enter Fancy's changeful realm, who hope 

From thought's mere exercise to build up truth. 

My little girl will be an avenue, 

A flower-fringed way to lead my footsteps back ; 

I hear her laugh sound through my vacant rooms, 

And the large house recovers life and soul, 

Touched by her magic finger ; as in the tale, 

A myriad hopes and possibilities, 

And many fair delights have fallen asleep 

In the wide kingdom of my heart ; and she, 

My princess, wakens all in this changed version 

Of fairy-lore remote. I cast off fear, 

I throw aside the cold reserve of years, 

I mix with the deep life of human kind ; 



68 EXILE. 

I know their joys, I feel the wondrous thrills 

Of ecstasy that are their common fare, 

I stand no more aloof; is it not true 

That feeling holds the All dissolved as pearl 

The Egyptian queen drank off in ruby wine? 

I face the twin infinities; lo ! Thought, 

Amid whose placid plains and silver streams 

These many years my constant feet have gone ; 

Lo ! Bliss, a sea on which I dare to float. 

I see the sister hold the brother's hand, 

And melt division of the bodily frame 

In one sweet innocent joy ; I see the child 

Stand by its mother's knee, and in their eyes 

Their souls are one ; I see friend walk with friend, 

And the mild stream of converse is themselves. 

No more dissevered, but each mixed with each ; 

The husband holds his wife against his breast. 

And in the rapture of their beating hearts. 

Fair marriage of two souls is consummate. 

And lo ! the world of passion ; shall I quake. 

And shudder back when these fierce gates expand ? 

The lover scatters kisses on his mistress' lips, 

As in the wood, which a dim stillness holds. 

The rose-leaves fall upon the moist soft grass; 

Vague thrills of fear and hope assail his breath. 

And in a dream he swoons, wherein his queen 

Is mystic mistress of the winds and streams. 

And naught is but themselves; and e'en the depths 

Of mad delights, where still the soul is torn 

By gusts of joy and hate, I dare explore ; 

The goddess of all lovers, pale and wan, 

I see within her caverned mount, and him, 



EXILE. 69 

The knight who bartered life and hope for her, 

Who chose sad love in lieu of God's own bliss. 

But now an end, I must no longer rave j 

I dare not trust that she will walk beside me, 

And if I fail, I give up all attempt. 

The trouble comes, I sacrifice the higher, 

Pure intellect, to what is of the lower born 

Perchance, and on that way is certain death. 

Oh, wretched that I cannot cling to one, 

But must bewilder me with many aims. 

It is not done, they will refuse,! think, 

And I shall have again my waveless calm ; 

That were the best, perhaps ; — what is the right ? 

Will they forego to see her, hear her, love her? 

Have I the right to tear from mother's side 

The child, and be a double criminal? 

Criminal — harsh word, nor yet devoid of truth. 

Down with these fears ! For once I am a man, 

A doer in the endless whirl of things. 

No passive looker-on ; what comes will come ! 

Meanwhile I put forth utmost power of hand 

To grasp the fruit has pleased my eager sense. 

I will give over thought, the balancing 

Of many points of view, adjustment nice 

Of motives filmy as the woven air. 

Or quickly-vanishing mist, unravelling 

Of elements fine as outspread web of light, 

That garments the bright sky, a chemistry 

Of spirit or of dream ; lo ! I will act 

And bathe me in the stream of consequence. 

Whereby I shall be man past what has been, • 

Yea, be in truth the deed, the power of God ! 



70 EXILE. 

X. 

Ida. 
But do you think that he will come again ? 

Mother. 
I have a firm conviction that he will. 

Ida. 
Then brother may go with me to the beach ? 

Alfred. 
Not so ; I wish to stay, and hear him talk. 

Father. 

Yes, you may stay ; we shall not see him after, 
And both may hear the words he speaks. 

Ida. 

Dear mother. 

Close by your side I shall not be afraid. 

Alfred. 

What kind of man is he? 

Father. 

He is a scholar. 
Has traversed many lands, and noted much. 
Has studied deepest books and gathered lore 
That none but loftiest intellects dare pursue. 
He is most subtile, and I more than deem 
Has lost himself amid a maze of thoughts, 



EXILE. 71 

So that no more he has a grasp of life. 
But floats as a stray leaf upon the flood, 
Or bubble through the many-pathed air. 

Alfred. 
You say what I can get no meaning from. 

Father. 

Most true ; I lost your question, dearest boy, 
And merely thought aloud ; a learned man, 
And yet I cannot call him good. 

Alfred. 

He spoke 
Of picture-books, of churches old and fair. 
Of mansions wide and grand he meant to show me. 

Father. 
No doubt he might if so he felt inclined. 

Ida. 

But he is sad, and in my utmost fear 
My heart weeps for him. 

Mother. 

There spoke my little girl ; 
He more excites our pity than our dread. 

Father. 

You know we have not wealth ; how if he came. 
And sought to bear you to his noble home. 
And bring to pass your every lightest wish ? 
For he has power. 



72 EXILE. 

Ida. 

I shake with sudden chill ; 
These words are not for me ? 

Mother. 

I hold you fast ; 
It is a jest, a trifle cruel. 

Ida. 

Him? 
Go forth with him, and leave you all behind? 
Say, must I go? But I shall surely die. 
Dear brother, come to me ; what can it be ? 
I soon shall tremble at you, father dear. 

Alfred. 

You shall not go so long as I am by ; 
They cannot tear you from me, so be still. 

Mother. 

Appease the child; you will forego her love. 
And much I fear me 'twill be somewhat long 
Before she loses memory of this shock. 

Father. 

Forgive, dear child ; I cannot tell you why. 
But somehow I felt bound to say the words. 
You should be free, I would not force your choice, 
Though filial love makes you our own. Enough ; 
You are too young to understand my purpose. 



EXILE. 73 

Mother. 

Your words make me ashamed of my swift harshness. 
But lo ! the stranger comes. 

The Stranger. 

I have returned. 

Mother. 
We welcome you again. 

The Stranger. 

I would be plain, 
And to my business pass at once. 

Father. 

Business ? 
Mother. 
Let him proceed. 

The Stranger. 

To you I speak, sweet child ; 
I am a lonely man, and your clear smile 
Is like the moon in life's sad night to me. 
Tremble not so ; for I shall bring you joy, 
And you will speak but to achieve your will. 

Ida. 
I am most sorry for you. 

The Stranger. 

Great gladness comes 
When you are near ; you will not flee again ? 

7 



74 EXILE, 

Ida. 
Your sadness grieves me, but I know you not. 

Alfred. 
You brought the picture-books you promised me ? 

The Stranger. 

I do forget — and yet — not now — not now — 
Hereafter I may send you them. Dear girl, 
Stand by me here, and let me hold your hand. 

Ida. 

No — no — I would not leave my mother's side ; 
Here I am safe — and you — I know you not, 
You are too strange. 

Father. 
You spoke but now of business. 

The Stranger. 

I do recall myself; your pardon, 

I shall mean no offence, but I would speak 

With freedom, and make clear my long desire. 

Father. 

Speak without fear ; it is my pleasure's wont, 
I have no love for windings in and out. 

The Stranger. 

I have great wealth, this is no news to you \ 
I have small faith in that munificence 
Which feeds its vanity by large bequests 



EXILE. 75 

To public charities ; the donor's will 

Is not expressible in perfect words, 

And the keen law's interpretative skill 

Brings manifold meanings from distinctest speech ; 

So the bequest is tortured from its end, 

And waters fields quite alien from the hope. 

I would bestow my gifts with lesser failure. 

Father. 

You well express my thought ; to be dispenser 
Of one's own bounties seems the wiser course. 

The Stranger. 

You pardon me, I would enrich your days, 
And change the dull monotony of your life 
To graceful interchange of pure delights. 
And harnessing the courser, property. 
To the swift car of your sweet family cheer, 
Set you at freedom from material chains. 
And leave the world to master as you wished. 

Father. 

Too large a gift, too slender toil for me ; 
Achievement is the best reward of work. 
I should refuse the gift. 

The Stranger. 

But hear me through : 
I am a lonely man ; I would find way 
To sweet communion with my fellow-man. 
The sense of glad society is long disused, 
And of itself the blossom will not grow. 



76 EXILE. 

I must find other means, and with your help 
1 shall not fail in its resuscitation. 

Father. 

If I can serve you in so wise a wish, 
'Twill give me joy. 

The Stranger. 

You have a fairy child, — 
Her hand shall guide me from my wilderness, 
Shall starwise lead me from the labyrinth, 
As in the ancient days the enamoured princess 
Led the Athenian stranger to the light. 

Father. 

I pray you come at once to your sure point ; 
In this obscure of words no thought is clear, 
And I must guess your purposes. 

The Stranger. 

Not guess ; 
We both shrink from the edge ; then here it is. 
This golden-haired fair child, this visible dream, 
I would receive from you to bear her hence, 
A daughter mine. The world shall be her toy, 
She shall be queen of the world's intellect. 
Upon the waves of fame her name shall float, 
A ship to bear great truths to sundered lands. 
All womanhood centred in her noble life 
Shall vaunt itself to have borne such prodigy ; 
Upon the mountain-peaks of time shall burn 
Her beacon-thoughts to rouse the sluggish nations ; 
What would you more? you cannot say me nay. 



EXILE. 77 



Father. 



You deem the answer easy; will the child 
Return at intervals to home and friends? 
For these, I doubt, in light of grandiose aims 
Might fade as night's most fiercely splendent stars 
Die on the breast of the effulgent sun. 

The Stranger. 

Return to home and friends ? strange speech to make ; 
What have these here to do ? 

Mother. 

Have you a heart ? 
You tear a soul from all it holds most dear, 
Sever as with a knife bonds red with blood, 
Make a young life as cold and lone as yours, 
Suppress the love that flows 'twixt mother and child, 
And then you say these have here naught to do? 

Father. 

Dear wife, no more. My daughter, listen well : 
You see this gentleman ; he offers you 
Wealth far beyond your wish — and I am poor — 
All things that make life worth desire to live, 
Fame, splendor, power to do mankind much service. 
Far more than your young years can understand, 
And I can give you but a dubious joy — 
For I am poor — save that you will be girt 
By purest love ; now you are free to choose ; 
Will you go forth with him ? 

7^ 



78 EXILE. 

Ida. 

I catch your sense ; 
Oh, mother, loosen not your grasp from mine ; 
I have no more to say. 

Alfred. 

I hate you, sir ; 
If you come here again I shall be wroth. 
And take sure means to do you some fell harm. 

Father. 

You have our answer, sir. 

The Stranger. 

I hear not well ; 
This looks like a refusal — folly dire ! — 
Shall I not have the child ? 

Mother. 

I can no more ; 
I pray you leave us now in peace. 

The Stranger. 

No — no — 
I yet am at dull loss ; my brain turns round ; 
You cannot be so cruel, yield the child. 
A mother's selfishness should here give way. 

Father. 

Enough ; you seem not swift to apprehend ; 

Have you not thought how in our close-meshed life 

The law prevails of cost and price ? Know that 



EXILE, 79 

Not fully formed into our grasp is given 
The thing we seek ; out of hard sacrifice 
As from some savage jaw 'tis ours to rend 
What so we yet desire. You dare to ask 
The sweetest gift of man's, nor reck the cost? 
Go ! mix with men, dispense your charities, 
In some fair woman's eyes doubt not to see 
The image of your aims reflected clear ; 
Then out of duties nobly done, and work 
Beside your fellows, as God's visible chrism, 
There will descend from Heaven your dear reward. 
Your child, incarnate symbol of much toil. 
And yielding up of self, your own, no fruit 
Plucked from another's tree, and lacking taste 
To soothe your hungered heart ; you ask in vain 
What is not right to give, and, being given. 
Could bring but death to you and her. 

The Stranger, 

And yet 
My thought is pure ; you break my latest hope ; 
To see my intent in mirror of your words 
Is horrible. Can I be lost so far? 
I am not used so to mistake the right. 
Yet you seem right ; I am quite broken down ; 
Grant me the time to gain my surer calm. 

Mother. 
Take comfort ; we are sad to give you pain. 

Father. 

These are grave depths of thought ; it is not well 
To deem oneself sufficient unto all. 



8o EXILE. 

In this dark mystery that we call life 

The appulse of souls and things and deeds so close 

Connects the each with all that disarray 

Means exile ; as the tree draws life from air, 

Yet rooted in the soil has dwelling-place, 

And perishes withdrawn from vital circle, 

So there survives no deed save as with all 

It mixes in the spiritual ebb and flow 

That is the soul of this vast universe ; 

Thought abstract feeds upon itself, a phantasm. 

It traverses all time and space, nor rests ; 

Life fills it with red blood, though yet I deem 

Mere living is but brutishness and dirt ; 

In realm of pure Idea is the source 

Of light, we walk in darkness otherwhere. 

The Stranger. 

The attempt is over. If I have given offence. 
Forgive. I am recovered from disease ; 
There needed but this last experience 
To render plain how that for men like me 
The intellectual is the sole repose. 

XL 

The Stranger. 

I feel deep shame — I must regain my calm \ 
But I shall prove apt learner. Here is end ; 
True, I was wrong to hope acquaintanceship 
With action's small dexterities a task 
Requiring little time ; the soul descends 
With troubled steps into an alien region. 



EXILE. 8 1 

The wisdom offered me with free outpour 

I long have found stale and unprofitable. 

Men have their functions, and the thinker stern 

Is not the least of creatures ; but I feel shamed 

At having touched that baser sphere, and known 

Weak thrills of soft lascivious feeling stir 

My heart bemired ; some large and cleansing thought 

Will rid me of these stains ! In the clear stream 

Of some great book I needs must bathe, perform 

Some vast and expiatory toil of brain. 

I scorn myself, the humiliation beats 

Against my brows, and drains my veins of blood. 

The truths they spake have only relevance 

Where souls yet infantile perforce seek aid 

From mutual stress, that subtle slavery 

Whence highest man superb erects himself, 

And being all, is freedom, his true self. 

But I shall soon forget ; these latest throes 

Fall from me as the cool clear drops of rain 

From burnished leaves amid the sober wood. 

I am restored unto myself — and never hence 

Shall I make wandering : where I early found 

The voice of passion fail in the far reaches, 

And youth's hot tumult melt in grateful peace, 

I shall abide ; the wall of chill reserve 

I build more just and firm. Here is no failure, 

Rather a clear recall my inmost soul 

Sounds, that no further I m.ay tread the steep. 

And fall to lot of common humankind. 

Like one who travels from a city's bounds, 

And sees the lessening lights upon the night. 

And the wide circle of his sight grows lone. 



82 EXILE. 

But overhead the large-faced moon is calm, 

And the great winds are free to utter speech — 

The city's tumult left behind, the pain of friendship. 

The fierce remorse of love, the belittling sense 

That comes of too much intercourse with men. 

All these and worser left behind forever — 

While the vext heart resumes its nobler peace. 

The sea of thought upheaves no more with storm, 

And inner weds the outer large repose. 

Like him who thus hath found what long he sought, 

I wander inward from the wizard sense. 

Release me from its many dear deceits, 

And rest within the spirit's solitude. 

O mighty Thought ! O Silence vast, profound ! 

O region of Ideals still, majestic. 

The very temple and the home of Gods, 

The atmosphere of causes, and the eagle-nest 

Of glorious influences ruling all the worlds. 

In you my mind and soul shall ever dwell ! 

noblest Truth ! to you is dedicate 

My mind, my strength, my hope, my all of being, 
You take I for my bride, you sole I love. 
Upon your altar as a sacrifice 

1 shed my blood, and sink in worldless rest ! 



TANTALUS. Z^ 



TANTALUS. 

The truth is so ; Apollo was my friend, 

And I held high acquaintance with the gods, 

And sat with them at table in the days 

When youth and cheerful spring-time ruled my life. 

I saw the mighty Thunderer on his throne. 

And fickle Juno laughing at his side ; 

I saw the lightning of his sudden smile 

Fill the far spaces of the Heavens with light, 

And from the vantage of my topmost outlook, 

I saw its radiance trembling to its fall, 

Saw its swift flash across the universe, 

And knew that in the realms of all the worlds 

New apprehensions changed the face of time. 

But chief Apollo was my friend, as dear 

To me as mother to her clinging child ; 

For from the fountains of his gracious power 

I drank large draughts of inspiration, felt 

That in the embrace of his transcendent love 

My being blossomed to its utmost height. 

I saw him pass Aurora's golden gates, 

And flood with sunshine the yet slumbering world ; 

I saw his car speed through the spiritual realms, 

And rise a sun upon the souls of men. 

Or beings likest men in all the worlds. 

But why recall those vanished joys of youth? 

Here in the depths of Hell I sit and mourn ; 



84 TANTALUS. 

Yet I will tell you how it came I fell. 

One day the Thunderer, gazing straight at me, 

In tones of soft compassion said, ''Ah, child. 

Too soon thou venturest on celestial plains, 

Too little canst thou mould thy budding life 

In harmony with the universal laws." 

He spoke, and on Apollo's cheek there fell 

A tear, and Heaven grew dark with misery. 

Men tell a vain and foolish tale of me, 

That I revealed the secrets of the gods ; 

For not with revelations are the gods 

At strife, all noble work is revelation. 

Inspired of them ; but they cannot endure 

The impotent efforts of half-witted men, 

Of souls who labor in a partial way, 

And mar their work with thoughtless zeal, or toil 

To give expression to a lofty dream 

In ignorance of the tools they needs must use. 

Two worlds a man must make his home in ; foremost 

The world of thought, and then by consequence 

The world of sense, where principles grow fact. 

And the idea finds expression fit. 

Therefore I fell ; I drank the nectar, fed 

The ambrosia, heard the words of all the gods. 

But from the bliss of my abstract ideal 

Could not descend, and hear the talk of men. 

Nor understand the laws of shop and mart. 

Nor join the pleasures of the laboring earth. 

Therefore I fell, and hence my punishment: 

Within the sea of lofty thoughts I sit. 

But of them I can gain nor food nor drink, 

And over me there hangs the shuddering doom. 



TANTALUS. 85 

And am I hopeless or despairing? Nay, 
I know the unfathomable love of Heaven, 
I know the gods are past our finding out, 
I know that in their providential care 
No woe shall stand unbalanced of its joy. 
Already through the gloom of yonder sky, 
This moonless night that girds me thick about, 
I catch faint gleams of glad returning light ; 
Already yonder eastern sky empurpling 
Quivers as if soft-touched by dawn, and soon 
I know Apollo's golden fire will burn 
On yonder cloud-rack, and upon my soul 
Will rise the morning of eternal day. 



S6 PYGMALION. 



PYGMALION. 

One night beneath the silver silent moon, 

While splendent snow-fields gleamed around me lone 

And far removed from human neighborhood, 

A thought of largest scope flashed on my soul. 

The barren trees in dusky solemn lines 

Edged the long road, and stood like sentinels 

To guard the stillness, or like pillars rude 

To hold the dome of cloudless star-sown sky, 

And build about the atom, the slight me. 

Whose swift pulsations thrilled along my veins. 

The spacious church whose lights are moon and stars. 

I saw the ages in their ceaseless toil. 

And in the opened Heavens I saw sublime 

The image of their destinies realized ; 

I heard the sound of human suffering. 

The mingled voices of the periods dead. 

The harsh confusion of the time's complaints, 

And deep-toned prophecies of woes to come ; 

But like an under song that through the thrill 

And crash of some divinest orchestra 

Weaves its slow golden way, and instrument 

On instrument absorbs into the flow 

Of its all-conquering harmony, I heard, 

As in a solemn hush, Pythagoras 

Alone beneath the calm Italian night, 

The symphony that merges in the swell 



PYGMALION. 87 

Of its unutterable perfectness, all cries, 

All sounds, all tones, all words, that clove, that cleave, 

Or e'er shall cleave this world-embracing air. 

And as the vision faded, and the song 

Died in a last burst of its loveliness, 

I heard a voice from out the central sky 

Speak in the deeps of my entranced heart : 

'* Say thou this vision unto anguislied men ; 

Above the toiling years, beyond all time, 

In spaces never mortal eyes beheld, 

On shores washed by serenest waves no ship 

E'er severed with its sharpened keel, say thou 

That in the spiritual plains, the eternal realms. 

Firm joyance waits for wisdom-craving man. 

Attune thy words unto the vanished tones. 

Whose golden splendor sang the perfect world. 

The concord of the seasons, and the love 

Of star for star, the amity of flower 

With sod, the friendship close of man and earth, 

The single clue that through the ages runs. 

The golden sphere that clips the universe round." 

So spake the voice, and so 1 listening heard ; 

Then all was still, save through the branches bare 

The winds went sobbing like a child in pain. 

And all the stars, and their white queen, the moon. 

Looked down with thousand eyes of icy dread 

Where prone upon the glittering snow I lay. 

Slowly I gathered thought and rose and gazed. 

And far below the height whereon I stood 

In the clear moonlight shone the sleeping town. 

And yet beyond the silvered reach of sea. 

Therefore I went, and girded up my loins. 



88 PYGMALION. 

And entered on the long unequal strife ; 

And like a statue, pure and faultless, white, 

A woman-form that held my utmost love, 

My purpose rose before my growing life. 

And ruled my deeds with undisputed sway. 

But men received with sneers my burning words, 

And laughed to scorn their import, which refused 

To clothe its soul of fire in usual forms, 

And cloak in shallow nicety of phrase 

Its solemn majesty of prophecy. 

But for a time I held my soul intact, 

Nor soiled with uses base the marble calm 

Of my dear love, my statue pedestalled 

Within my heart, my spirit's church. 

But as the weary years rolled on apace, 

And my laborious striving bore no fruit. 

My steps grew laggard, and my heart grew cold. 

Therefore I thought this high severity. 

This tense upholding of a lofty aim, 

This lighting beacons on unscalable hills. 

This starlike shining inaccessible, 

Moves men to laughter, and suffices not. 

Men's moods still love the grassy stream-fed fields, 

Nor care to breathe the chilly mountain air. 

Wherefore I poured my thought in narrower moulds. 

And swerved its high significance to meet 

The temporary hopes and aims of men. 

So round me grew a bitter clamorous sect, 

A barking crowd of indurated souls, 

Who minced the truth, and looked with hate and scorn 

On those who walked without their narrow ring. 

Then wealth and luxury played round my feet. 



PYGMALION. 89 

And trumpet-voicM fame proclaimed my name 
In the four quarters of the listening earth. 
But in my heart there was a growing blank, 
And on my soul, that gazed with longing sore, 
The vision visibly darkened day by day. 
Wherefore one night in deep despair I went 
To the cold summit where the solemn dream 
Had visited my unexpectant soul. 
And as I clomb the hill, I heard again 
The music of the universe, and saw 
In gradual clearness the world's destiny, 
The universal end that all things serve, 
The pure ideal of eternity. 
But as I heard, the harmony was snapped, 
And fell away in discord, ruinous, harsh. 
And as I gazed, the vision shook with earthquake, 
Its light endured eclipse, its symmetry 
Vanished in waves of chaos dire and vast. 
Then round me poured the ocean of that storm, 
And in my ears sounded and howled the din 
Of winds unearthly making ceaseless moan ; 
And then I knew that I was deep in Hell. 
One last long look I cast into my heart, 
And saw my statue soiled and sensualized, 
Bemired, dragged in the dirt of vulgar aims, 
Discrowned, and beast in semblance, that shone erst 
A woman mild with eyes of love and hope. 
Then sunk I depths of Hell unfathomable. 
Until I reached this ledge of lingering hope. 
Where through the day I weep and pray and weep, 
And in the passage of the moonless nights 
Sometimes catch sudden gleams of distant stars. 

8* 



90 HANGING THE PICTURES. 



HANGING THE PICTURES. 

At last they came, the treasures I had longed 
To hold within my hands for many days. 
With eagerness I cut the cord and gazed ; 
From wide unfathomable eyes of bliss 
The mystical mother looked upon me there ; 
The child sat throned upon her arms as King 
Of all the worlds and the long reach of time. 
I looked at it with feelings gently touched, 
And loved the mighty artist for his gift, 
Though but a faint reflection was my own. 
Now underneath this picture lay one more, 
The fair incomparable Madonna, she 
Who floats amid the softly-parting clouds, 
Her feet upon the moon, and circled by 
A crowd of lovely angels, winsome babes. 
That take the air as native element. 
Miraculous flight of playful birds of Heaven. 
I lingered with them long, and gazed at them, 
And held them in all lights, and strove to catch 
Some glimpse of the deep message they contained. 
At length I cut my cord and placed my hooks. 
And hung them, but the day was pale and gray, 
And rain-clouds strove to weep their bitter tears 
For this earth's many sins, and robe in gloom 
The habitations and the homes of men. 
I could not get them in the proper light, 



HANGING THE PICTURES, 9 1 

I took them down and tried another way, 

But it was all in vain ; they hung awry, 

They were too far apart, they were too near. 

I tried again, again, but all in vain. 

And now the clouds assembled thick and vast. 

The sudden lightning gleamed, and thunder rolled 

Sullen across the summer's sultry air. 

I sat me down, and could not hold my tears. 

And felt somehow an aching sense of loss. 

For all my joy was simply dust and ashes. 



> 



LYRICAL AND NARRATIVE. 



AD POETAM. 

What dost thou seek in the night's deep mystery, 

Dreamer of dreams, and singer of songs ? 
Dost thou believe the world's sad history 

Will cease from its lengthening record of sorrow, 
Will put from itself its grave garment of wrongs, 
Will bask in the light of the sun-mastered morrow, 
Because thy keen music dissevers the air, 
And all the four winds thy sweet messages bear? 

Nay, thou dost say the songs that have gladdened thee 
Sprang from thy heart like young birds from their nest, 
Stilled with their murmurs the woes which have sad- 
dened thee, 
Rescued thy soul from thy passion's sharp peril, 
Hushed into calm thy tumultuous breast ; 

And shall the sweet realm of thy singing prove 
sterile, 
Now thou hast built round the listening heart 
A land in whose seasons no winter has part ? 

Surely with thee, O compassionate singer of songs, 

With thee all is well, O dreamer of dreams ; 
What though the day, though the night, be the bringer 
of wrongs. 
Art thou not sovereign of mystical regions. 
Art thou not sovereign of the land which gleams 
With the light of pure Hope's innumerous legions ? 
Wherefore lead, oh, lead us, to thy realm where spring, 
Joy, and clear wisdom abide and sing. 

95 



96 THE NEW MIDAS. 



THE NEW MIDAS. 

Of old the gracious gods from Heaven descended, 

In hands immortal bearing costly gifts, 
With man his daily toilsome pathways wended, 
Shed solemn radiance in transfiguring drifts, 
Radiance of Heaven's midsun. 
On all things thought or done, 
With might divine man against men defended. 

From wrong that slays the laboring truth that lifts. 

They taught to cleave with prow the unmeasured ocean. 
To harvest wave-ridged fields where foam-flowers 
grow. 
To count Time's all-prevailing pulse and motion. 
The spirit's deepmost mysteries to know, 
To tend the sprouting grain. 
To rear on brown-hued plain 
The splendid symbol of the heart's devotion, 
With cities populous the land to sow. 

They built much-trodden roads to realms ideal, 

And peopled with their oracles the air, 
Uniting in relation hymeneal 

Man's hope and all the fruitful earth did bear, 
So that his visionings 
On splendor-dropping wings 
Haunted each vale and glade, and changed the real 
To visible image of his dreams most fair. 



THE NEW MIDAS. 97 

Therefore in woods where summer lingered playing, 
Making her footsteps sweet with grass and flower, 
Where pleasure circled swart Silenus straying. 
Where Bacchus slept in rose-illumined bower, 
And dryads trod the green, 
And shy soft-eyed were seen 
Slim nymphs and oreads going blithe a-Maying, 
Midas, the king, occasion found and hour. 

For him, Silenus — ^who, afar from joyance 

The wine-god's merry crew made in that gloom. 
Had wandered, and in bacchant mazed annoyance 
Pondered of satyr lost the imminent doom — 
For guerdon of kind care, 
And conduct safe to where 
The grieving master stayed the revel's buoyance. 
Set in the space the glad god's smiles illume. 

And Bacchus all King Midas' askings granted, 
Giving him power to change to virgin gold 
All things in which his mystic touch implanted 
The virtue magical his hand did hold ; 
A shallow boon, indeed. 
Born of material greed, 
Of fortunate sequence in due period scanted, 
A fool's desire that scorn and grief unfold. 

But, in these latter days, in joys ethereal 

The gods sit on their thrones, forgetting men ; 

Void is the earth of all their songs imperial. 
Void is each forest deep and rose-clad glen, 

9 



98 THE NEW MIDAS. 

Void is the chainless air, 
Void are the spaces fair 
With immemorial march of worlds sidereal, 
Mute are those tones to earthly denizen. 

Sometimes sweet companies from the dim spacious 
Plains of the Heavens descend the flushing light. 
Circle young hopes with halos warm and gracious, 
Strengthen travailing thought with spiritual might, 
Flit before children's eyes. 
Paint the gold sunrise skies. 
Gladden deep-grieving hearts with dreams veracious. 
And cheer brave souls upholding struggling right. 

But momentary is the golden vision ; 

The level winds upbear not long the feet 
Treading secure their waves as fields elysian. 
For one tranced interval the soft wings beat, 
And tones sweet as Love's voice 
Bid the worn soul rejoice. 
Then night or daylight stares in grim derision 
On emptied homes and spectre-peopled street. 

One god remains man's friend, gold-haired Apollo, 
Mindful of shepherd days when Time was young, 
Sad with man's woe, sad with the gladness hollow 
The Fates for world around his soul have hung ; 
He knows the burdened heart. 
The clamorous, fruitless part 
Of hope bemocked with dream it cannot follow. 
Of mind in anxious dubitation swung. 



THE NEW MIDAS. 99 

Therefore, as Bacchus erst in forests olden, 

He gave a gift, but universal, pure; 
The gift to change to substance spiritual-golden, 
The shows and forms of all man's life obscure; 
No selfish, thoughtless boon, 
But power to set in tune 
The wide world-chaos age on age beholden. 

To build the harmonious sphere that shall perdure. 

Therein the passionate sea's deep-throated mystery. 
The high-domed laugh of cloudless mid-day sky, 
The light of stars, and weird, unspoken history 

Stream-cloven caves through all their darkness sigh, 
The calms of summit snows 
Flushed with the sunset rose. 
And voice of summer's breeze-bent flower consistory. 
Furnish the feast whereby the soul will lie. 

Therein the soul in sovereignty pure and regal 

Sceptres the elemental powers at will. 
Haunts thought's sea-spaces like a spirit sea-gull. 
Hearkens what songs the empyrean fill, 
Feels through its spirit limbs 
Thrill Love's mysterious hymns, 
Spreads its broad wings and soars like sun-born eagle. 
To God's sun-temple crowning God's steep hill. 

Therein the nations in firm friendship banded, 
Travelling the centuries loud with rapturous song, 

Past the vexed rocks where ancient peoples stranded, 
Secure from war and hatred's poisonous wrong, 



lOO THE NEW MIDAS. 

One body, one wide heart, 
To earth's remotest part, 
One great world-giant, conquer Fate, and landed 
On greener shores the pastoral times prolong. 

Therein the One supreme, the ineffable glory. 

The soul of love and substance pure of good. 
The infinite might and world-embracing story. 
The life of stream and singing-bird and wood, 
The trumpet of the storm. 
The light whose beams inform 
Rapt thought and wisdom with much travail hoary. 
Serenely smiles in measureless fatherhood. 

O lord Apollo, thee, by night and daytime 

Singing we praise and long with thee to be ; 
Clear as the silver stars at night's mid play-time, 
Thou comest that work-wearied men may see ; 
At autumn's fruitful tide. 
By winter's bright fireside. 
In rose-draped summer, and in chaster May-time, 
We sing the gladness that is still with thee. 



THE FEAST OF ROSES. lOl 



THE FEAST OF ROSES. 

Argument. — Elagabalus, Emperor of Rome and Priest of the 
Sun, becoming weary of his Senate, determined to rid himself of 
them, and at the same time make a sacrifice to his god, the Sun. 
Wherefore he called them to a sumptuous feast, at which he pro- 
cured a veritable shower of roses, whereunder they were miser- 
ably smothered, and offered up as victims to his refulgent Idol. 

How long shall virtue, good, most empty names, 
Bind fast the limbs of him who rules the world ? 

How long shall senate, state, familiar claims, 
Around his hopes like restless snakes be curled? 

How long the power which every pleasure tames 
In virtue's cerements be most basely furled ? 

Let Love and Joy call forth their happy crowds 

Resplendent as a flock of sunset clouds. 

From bliss to bliss, the lucent waves of life, 

Let our souls' barques glide onward pauselessly, 

Past sound or sight remove all storm and strife, 
Where we seek rest, may calm forever be, 

The winds with wildest odors ever rife. 

Mild blossoms grow, and fruits down-load the tree, 

Forgotten cares that nest within our hearts. 

And slay our dreams with swift envenomed darts. 

To-morrow let the all-beholding sun, 

Whose altars smoke with ceaseless sacrifice. 

Rejoice as never yet since first begun 

His daily course ; his flame-dispersing eyes 

9* 



I02 THE FEAST OF ROSES. 

Shall dim in smoke of rapturous triumph won, 

For his sake, by the King, who, dust-clad, lies, 
Lord of the world, yet abject slave mid slaves. 
Before his throne, and his protection craves. 

Prepare the feast ! To-morrow's noon shall know 
A carnival where life and death shall meet, 

Where life in splendor like the sun's shall glow, 
Where death wild revelry shall kiss and greet, 

Where joys shall fall like countless flakes of snow. 
Where death shed myriad darts like sharp-tongued 
sleet. 

Sing praises to the Sun, our God, our Lord : 

We bring him victims more than war and sword ! 

Prepare the feast ! Earth's choicest treasures spill 
More lavish than the full-blown moon her light ; 

Bright gold, that filled the bowels of the hill. 
And gems that lay deep-hidden from the sight. 

Convert to shapes that suit unfettered will ; 

And fruits, and wines that drank immeasured night 

Of depths mysterious, flowers, dance, and song, 

Our summer tide of revels shall prolong ! 

At the clear morrow's noon, the palace gates 
Admit the noble, wise, and great, and good ; 

The regal slendor brightly dissipates 

The latest fear that checked the rapid blood. 

Elagabalus, fair amid such mates. 

Reflects on all the radiance of his mood ; 

Like morn's fair beams traversing a clear lake, 

The smiles across his pale face fleet and shake. 



THE FEAST OF ROSES. 103 

Up marble stairs whose balustrades with gold 
Are thick encrusted as the night with stars, 

Through halls whose beauty crowns the sense, past old 
Dusk chambers through whose moonlit window-bars 

The midnight glow on kingly revels rolled. 
Satiate with splendor that no discord mars, 

The dreaming guests follow the rustling girls, 

Whose feet make softer music than the whirls 

Of midnight oreads in aerial dance. 

Lo ! marvels that the brain but half conceives ; 
For as the darkness flees, when truth's strong lance 

Pierces the air with gleaming strokes and leaves 
To light fields uncontested, or as prance 

Morn's radiance-winged coursers, when she weaves 
Her night- slaying spell, and showers white floods of 

splendence 
From mane and hoofs across their swift ascendence, 

Even thus the night of bliss experienced fled, 

The fiery morn of bliss expectant rose. 
Their souls like outworn garments from them shed 

The dreams of the wan past, the real grows 
On them as summer's sun on winter dead, 

The fleeting moments novel joys disclose, 
Rapture on rapture gradual revel keeps, 
Capricious as a fountain's golden leaps. 

What mortal tongue may hope in words to tell 
The wonder of the place wherein they stood ? 

From lands mysterious by some potent spell, 
From sunless depths of seldom-visited wood, 



I04 THE FEAST OF ROSES. 

From gloomy cavern or sprite-haunted dell, 

Sprang forth the hands whose subtle masterhood 
Fashioned the solid miracle of dream, 
Whose wondrous glory did around them gleam. 

A vast hall, through whose many-windowed walls 
The noontide fell with yellow fire and flame, 

The senses lulled by slumberous water-falls, 
And melancholy strains fitfully came 

Like echoes soft and low. Loose-robed thralls, 
African slaves, like beasts that singers tame. 

Recline about the boards of gem-starred gold, 

Or in their dusky hands the wine-cups hold. 

The roof presents an intertangled net 

Of precious fretwork, vine and grapes and flower. 
Around the central orb, all golden, set 

To catch the errant sunbeams, then to shower 
A* rain of light upon the fount whose wet 

Circumference beneath is bright with dower 
Of broad-leaved lilies, round whose thinnest cups 
Quick sunbows leap in merry downs and ups. 

And myriad loves shoot subtly-pointed darts 
Across the walls, whose crowning carved curves 

Titans uplift, and on which Painting starts 
Into fair life of thought. Here ocean swerves 

As Venus treads its waves like lovers' hearts. 
Here Helen passion's wildest flights ennerves. 

Here Phaedra spurns the cold Hippolytus, 

Here sings of love fierce Sappho amorous. 



THE FEAST OF ROSES. 105 

The tortured earth in meek subservience 

Had oped her thousand doors, and shown her spoils 
To countless slaves, who bore her treasures thence. 

And wove them in their unimagined toils 
To all that fills the eye, or thrills the sense ; 

There lay the fruits and flowers of nameless soils. 
The forest and the sea their tribute brought, 
Whate'er the brain conceived, the hand had wrought. 

The garlands crown the brows, the rosy wine 

Shines thick with sunbeams like weird snakes of fire, 

Pleasure and song their passioned souls entwine. 
And wake the slumbering brood of strong desire ; 

Fiercer the music, wilder wild eyes shine. 

Fiercer the mirth like flames upclambering higher ; 

Fancy withdraws them from the streaming light, 

They live in dreams outshining those of night. 

It was the height and fury of the feast ; 

The King descends, and through the risen crowd 
Walks slow, his priest-garb glorious as the East, 

When morning kindles all its waste of cloud. 
Shone in the sun a lesser sun. Sound ceased 

As low a subtle purpose he avowed : 
''Ye strove for glory, for the laurel crown. 
To-day shall furnish you fair roses of renown." 

Like noiseless cloud or breeze he crept away, 

The doors behind him clanged with harshest din ; 

Wild music rose upon the air. Men say 
A youth whose young years were as thick with sin 



lo6 THE FEAST OF ROSES. 

As ruins old with ivy, heard that lay- 
As he past Circe's isle was wandering. 
Fear sprung from sleep that lulled its fiends awhile, 
They stood with lifted cup and frozen smile. 

Lo! as an exhalation flees the morn, 

The roof recedes before the engulfing air ; 

They stand amazed, they watch in dread, in scorn, 
The yawning cleft ; some sink in weak despair, 

Some dream of scenes whose splendor will adorn 
Past splendor ; hark! the King's voice low and rare 

" Sing praises to the Sun, our God, our Lord : 

We bring him victims more than war or sword !" 

Down rang the trembling cups, loud cries of rage 
And fear and woe affright the shaken walls, 

The doors are shut. Like tigers in a cage 

They stamp the floor, and beat the space that galls 

Their impotence. In vain the white-haired sage. 
The poet, patrician, and most wretched thralls. 

Attempt to flee. They wrench the casement bars ; 

Behold unnumbered spears like midnight's stars. 

But, lo ! a miracle. The winds are red 
With unimaged rain, that fills the light 

With rosy hue like curtains of the bed 
Adonis sleeps on, hid from human sight. 

They pause and laugh, mirth is no longer dead. 
They fill the bowl and joy in such a night ; 

A rain whose drops were roses swiftly fell. 

And quick enclosed them in a roseate dell. 



THE FEAST OF ROSES. 1 07 

They bind the roses in their streaming locks, * 

They drink to Joyance, Hope, and mighty Love, 

They tear the lilies from the fountain's rocks, 
Their steps to sensuous music nimbly move, 

Their blood comes from their hearts in maddening 
shocks, 
Through dreams their errant fancies errant rove. 

And ever fell engirt by odors keen 

The roses like a baleful star-shower seen. 

Roses, roses, roses, wonderful rain, 

Roses, roses, thicker than wintry hail, 
Immixed with blooms that veins of dryads stain, 

And blooms that at a lover's vows grow pale, 
White, golden, violet, red, the dim eyes fain 

Would close their weary orbs lest sight should fail ; 
Roses, roses, roses, ceaselessly falling. 
With steps more soft than echo on love faint calling. 

Roses, roses, roses, up to the knees. 

Where now lies mirth forgotten and forlorn ? 

Roses, roses, their fallings do not cease, 

Where now are all the joys that lit the morn ? 

Roses, roses, roses, their heaps increase. 

Ah ! better Death when blows the onset horn. 

Roses, roses, roses, up to the neck. 

These crowds of their last joy or passion reck. 

No breeze disturbs the sky ; the risen moon 
Lies in the shivering arms of the dusk east ; 

The setting sun affrights the eve, at noon 

His rays were paler ; like a blood-stained beast 



I08 THE FEAST OF ROSES. 

*The King stands on the roof and hearks the tune 
The priests below chant unto their high-priest : 
Rejoice ! rejoice ! O Sun, our God, our Lord, 
Thou hast had victims more than war and sword ! 



ARIADNE. 109 



ARIADNE. 



In the days of the glad, sweet spring of the world, 

In the dewy silver dawn of time. 
The flame-wings of legends were loosed and unfurled, 

Those blithe-voiced birds of that clear-ethered clime. 

Might I catch the receding tones of those tales, 
And follow the course of their murmurous flow. 

Ah, God, to mine eyes would be given the vales 
And the hills whence the sun and the spring never go. 

For surely somewhere will the soul find life. 

That thrills through its uttermost fibrils of frame. 

With freedom from loss, and trouble, and strife. 
And the far-off" fleeting of the loves it would claim. 

Of old on the sleep of the brave man there fell 
Dreams clothed about as with fervor of fire. 

Fair shapes of dream, with lips sweet from song's well. 
The visible splendor of the soul's chief desire. 

So when Theseus lay blind in the prison's night, 
In the dumb, dull stillness no sound broke afar, 

Ariadne made flee the darkness like light. 

Shone marvellous-clear on his sight like a star. 

And he followed the thread of its golden gleam 

Till the gracious white daylight shone broad on his 
face. 
Past the cowed, crouched monster, out into the stream 
Of the wide, vital air, from the foul, dank place. 

10 



no ARIADNE. 

And she loved him, clove to him, led hiai forth. 
Sat with him in his hollow, blue-prowed, swift boat, 

Ploughed with him the perilous sea-ways to the north, 
Struck out of his soul its chief pure note. 

So the distant and difficult grew near and less hard. 
Compelled by the equable pulse of her breath, 

And his spirit waxed clear as the sight of a bard 
Transpiercing the veils of life and of death. 

Then the might of the true took hold of him, 

And gave him strong longings for seeing his thought 

Take shape and color, from the deepmost dim 
Vast tracts of his soul into body wrought. 

So she bade him God-speed, and bade him set sail, 
Lest his love should impede the things to be ; 

And watched the small speck of his boat sink and fail 
Across the immeasurable glow of the sea. 

Ah, brothers, shall our eyes the glad vision rejoice. 
The faultless fair form of the life we would live ? 

Shall we find outlet from the world's thick noise ? 
Has Time the old power such gifts to give? 

What has been, shall be ; the gods on high 

Sit apart in immutable, happy peace ; 
They fashioned man and the world ; till they die 

Neither pleasure nor pain shall know loss nor increase. 



ACTION. Ill 



ACTION. 

Through the green woods the fair morning light 

Flashed in a rain of shattered beams ; 
Like a frightened thief the swift-winged night 

Fled from the skies with her booty of dreams. 

The lucid air of the jocund woods, 

The sense of freedom that filled the green space, 
The unseen joys that in numberless broods 

Peopled the dryad-haunted place, 

Awoke in the heart of the hunter bold 

The keen desire to follow the game, 
And fathom the secret old legends told 

Of a stag that had put all hunters to shame. 

He threw his quiver on his shoulder fair, 

He seized his bow in his sinewy hand, 
He called to his hounds with a lordly air, 

And felt his breast with his joy expand. 

Through the softly-lighted hush of the wood. 

Through the dew-drop's quickly-extinguished shine. 

He passed till his lingering footsteps stood 
Before a thicket where the roses' twine 

And the envious boughs concealed from sight 

The silver expanse of the secret lake. 
Save that sudden gleams like a snow of light 

Burned through the leaf-spaces, fierce flake on flake. 



112 ACTyEON. 

Over his head the sky was blue, 

Around him sounded no living voice ; 

As he waiting stood the silence grew 

As of one who had lost the power to rejoice. 

He knew that the mystery's heart lay bare 
Beyond the green wall's thick-woven screen ; 

He breathed the entranced deep-scented air, 
He halted with troubled and doubtful mien. 

A brooding wonder encircled the spot, 
A breathing fear as though one stood 

On the verge of the universe, and caught 
A glimpse of the high God's solitude. 

His hounds lay crouched in the knee-high grass. 
They quivered and crept to their master's feet ; 

He trembled and longed and trembled to pass. 
And heard the musical waters beat. 

With a passionate cry he sundered in twain 
The hateful leaves that impeded his sight, 

And stood transfixed to the spot in pain 
Of a bliss that flooded his soul with light. 

Like a statue cut from the moonbeams pale, 

Frozen in all their luminousness. 
The goddess stood devoid of veil 

Or garment saving the windy distress 

Of her golden hair, that with lambent shine 

Circled her body, and lit with fire 
The waters under, where the shadow-leaves twine 

Round her pallid shadow as if sick with desire. 



ACTION. 113 

And like lilies that rise on a burnished lake, 
The white-armed maidens, where fancy willed, 

Floated, and laughed for Diana's sake, 
As their hollowed palms the water spilled. 

Then the goddess turned her cruel pure eyes 
On the bold intruder in a passion of scorn. 

And smote with the sword of her grand surprise 
His body through, and his spirit forlorn 

Dissevered his loosened limbs' control. 

And shivered the bonds that held him to earth. 

As an oak is uptorn when the wind twists the whole 
Of its might round the manifold-ringed girth. 

Like remorseful thoughts that, wakened from sleep, 
Turn on the soul, his maddened hounds 

Leaped on their master, and, baying deep, 
Filled with their din the wood's wide bounds. 

Deep silence fell on the terrible place. 

Deep silence and darkness of terrible death 

On the man who had dared to defile the space 
Where the goddess dwelt with unsanctified breath. 



10* 



114 ITHACA. 



ITHACA. 

Wearily the mariners bend to their toil 

Under the light of the noonday sun ; 
Sadly they stoop, and bitterly think 

On the glad days long over and done. 

Wastes of pitiless gleaming waves 

Gird them about, and in mocking glee 

Rolls and plashes against their keel 
The pauseless jeer of the cruel sea. 

Dreams of the distant island home, 
Dreams of wife and questioning child, 

Hover before their brooding minds, 
People the air with images mild. 

Terrible shores untrodden of men, 

Lying athwart their ways they find. 
Infested with beasts, and dreary with moans, 

Making the day beclouded and blind. 

Past the perilous charm of the isles 

Sirens encircle with luring song, 
They have sailed, heart-drawn to the blooming shores, 

Barely escaping their grievous wrong. 

Master, O master, Ulysses wise, 

Lead us beyond the monotonous main ; 

Inly we weep, and long to see 
Ithaca's woods and grassy plain. 



ITHACA. 115 

Ithaca, Ithaca, home of our hearts, 
Shine in the glory of sunset gold ! 

Shine a soft, rosy cloud in the west. 
Grow on our sight as our way we hold ! 

Subtly the master smiles with his eyes, 
Points them afar and bids them wait ; 

Many a time, or ere they return, 
Shall the sun pass his western gate. 

Secure in the distance the island lies ; 

Surely some day its cloudy shape, 
Rising, shall glad their straining gaze, 

Bent on well-loved harbor and cape. 



Il6 A DREAM. 



A DREAM. 

Across the wide plain of my slumber, 
I saw through shadow and gleam, 

The souls of mankind without number 
Proceed in a pauseless stream. 

The fount of their coming was hidden 

In a light-suffused mist, 
And they marched like soldiers bidden 

By a word they could not resist. 

They passed into black abysses 
Of a fathomless, moonless night, 

Abandoning earthly blisses, 
Forsaking the noonday's light. 

African, Chinese, European, 

The several races of man. 
Patrician, yeoman, plebeian, 

Swift-changing the river ran. 

Each nation upbore a banner, 
Their many wanderings above. 

Inscribed in a mystic manner 
With the holy name of Love. 



A DREAM. 117 

And each passer, though wrinkled and mired, 

Whatever his name or his land, 
However equipped or attired, 

Held a fadeless flower in his hand. 

And lo ! through the darkness before them 

A sudden effulgence glowed, 
And I saw beyond them and o'er them 

The end of their toilsome road. 

They stood on a plain assembled, 

That glittered with endless spring, 
And over them shone and trembled. 

And around them, ring upon ring, 

Like an ocean of golden splendor, 

Swept the might of the world's utter Love ; 

And I saw that this was the sender 
Of all their life from above. 

Then the flower each passer had cherished 

Burst forth into lovelier bloom. 
And his woes like vapors perished. 

That the ardors of morning consume. 

I woke in a joyous shiver, 

And saw through my window-pane 
The sun despoiling his quiver. 

And his arrows' golden rain. 



Il8 THE ROYAL QUESTIONER. 



THE ROYAL QUESTIONER. 

I. 

The King said in his heart : 

" This is a bitter part 

The soul must play 

In the resistless sweep and sway 

Of mighty powers that build the world. 

I sought not life ; 

Into the strife 

Some supreme power hurled 

My infant spirit scarcely risen from night. 

Now that the light 

Of bitter consciousness 

Shines on the dire distress, 

In whose relentless arms 

Perforce I am holden, 

I curse the mystic charms 

That broke the golden 

And dreamless sleep 

My soul did keep 

Upon the breast of the high God, 

Or ere these realms of woe I trod." 

II. 

The night made no reply ; 
Across the leaden sky 
No star shed radiance pale, 
Nor did the moon assail 



THE ROYAL QUESTIONER. 1 19 

With motion slow and sweet 

The forces of dusk cloud, 

Whose outspread crowd 

Sometimes make swift retreat, 

Sometimes in silver surges beat 

Around her lingering feet. 

The wind made dreary moan. 

And rose and fell in dolorous undertone. 



III. 



The King said : 

" I would that I were dead. 

All things I have and hold, 

My days are girt with gold ; 

Like birds from all earth's climes 

Swift pleasures fly to me 

Uninterruptedly; 

The poet in his rhymes 

Utters my praises high. 

Proclaims my name shall never die. 

And writes it like a god's upon the sky ; 

The beasts of wealth and fame 

I long ago did tame ; 

The wide earth is my slave, 

I bind my chains upon the air, 

And tread with feet the waters fair ; 

Yet do I crave 

More than all this 

To make my sum of bliss. 

I cannot see the dream 

That comes with vagrant gleam 



120 THE ROYAL QUESTIONER. 

And shy reserve of its deep loveliness, 

A splendid visitant, 

Into the drear excess 

Of my thought's sad chaotic stress, 

I cannot see my dream 

Of perfect good. 

And justice' utter masterhood, 

Pass into life and light. 

And scatter wide the cloud of night 

Whose despotism 

Has cast the nations in the black abysm 

Of doubt and fear, 

And passion-ruled cheer. 

As some sweet plant 

May grow in hidden nook, 

By all its sisterhood forsook, 

And shed its odor rare 

Upon the solitary air. 

With no glad eyes to see 

Its crescent splendor. 

Even so in me 

There blooms a tender 

And wide-embracing hope, 

That right shall cope 

With regnant wrong. 

And prove more strong. 

But all in vain 

Are toil and strain ; 

I strive to find the solemn truth, 

I strive to do the supreme good, 

But still I fall from lofty mood. 

And weep the wasted energies of youth. 



THE ROYAL QUESTIONER. 121 

My soul is rent in twain, 

And seeks to choose in vain 

Between the bitter best, 

And honey-sweet desire, 

That burns like wind-swept fire 

Within my breast. 

I love all noble things. 

But like thin mists at morn 

They rise on subtle wings, 

xAnd leave my heart in scorn. 

This is not life. 

This unavailing strife, 

This inextinguishable feud 

Between myself and good. 

Therefore within my heart I said 

I would that I were dead." 

IV. 

The mocking wind, 
With voice worn-out and thinned. 
Like some old beldam croaking lies. 
That bring a pained surprise 
Into the maiden's eyes. 
Mutters its dismal moan 
In the four quarters of the night ; 
And the wide-wandering tone, 
The smothered cry for light. 
Pervades the darkling atmosphere. 
In gusts of anguish drear 
It comes from out the caverns of the east ; 
Like one who conscience-smitten dies 
II 



122 THE ROYAL QUESTIONER. 

It comes and falls in broken sighs ; 

Then, to a shrill woe increased, 

It traverses the bounds of space, 

And fills each place 

With passion sharp and dread. 

Till, caught in a strong whirl of sound. 

The soul in eddies is tossed round, 

And left for dead 

In the midst of a sea 

Of pain that sighs and sounds eternally. 

V. 

The King spoke words of scorn : 

"The yellow light of morn. 

The silence of the dark, 

Look on a world of war and hate ; 

As a stray spark 

Of pitiless fire 

Oft scatters ruin dire. 

And in brief space is strong to dissipate 

The high-built domes of weary years. 

Even so a drop of strife 

Has entered into life, 

And poisoned all its several spheres. 

In nature's realm 

Rude forces overwhelm 

The strongly-bastioned fabrics of the ages' toil ; 

Beast preys on beast, 

And gorges on the loathsome feast ; 

Time wearily makes spoil 

Of all its tireless effort strove to build, 



THE ROYAL QUESTIONER. 1 23 

And, its long reaches filled 

With thick accumulating death, 

It laughs in scorn beneath its breath, 

And mutters low, 

* From overturning unto overturning 

My leaden-footed moments go.' 

Think on the world of man : 

A chaos without plan, 

A carnival of passions fierce and rude. 

Whose overmastering brood 

With savage glee go spurning 

Under strong tread 

All things for which brave hearts have bled 

And poured out life 

Upon the fields of strife. 

No lofty aspirations 

Transfuse with hope the death-chilled nations ; 

The mad, ignoble fight for gain. 

The dominance of bitter hate, 

The wide-spread rule of fear and pain, 

The death-in-life of resignation unelate. 

The ever-growing forms of ill, 

My being fill 

With wild despair, 

And hatred of the vital air. 

There is no God, 

Or, if there be. 

Treads He no more the earth as once He trod 

The far-off fields of Galilee ? 

I cannot pierce the storm whose roof 

Against the light is solid-proof, 

Through might of vapors thick and vast 



124 THE ROYAL QUESTIONER. 

Heaped up in all the ages past. 

I see no way 

Into the regions of the day. 

I would that I and all this world were drowned 

In a still ocean's depths profound, 

Past sight or sound, 

Where dreamless sleep 

In its dumb calm our tumult might forever keep." 

V[. 

The silence dread 

Was as the silence of the dead ; 

The wind no longer sought to fill 

With prophecies of ill 

The vacant realms of space \ 

While clouds made bold to interlace 

Great gulfs of gloom 

With depths of night, dark as the doom 

Of souls lost in the trackless wastes of sin. 

Without, within, 

Throughout the visible sphere, 

Throughout the King's tempestuous soul, 

Reigned passioned fear, 

And uttermost expanse of dole. 

VII. 

Then spoke a voice 

Whose faintest tremble made the heart rejoice \ 

A wondrous voice whose tone 

Seemed effluent 

From nature's inmost element, 

As though the world-soul spoke. 

And its mysterious silence broke. 



THE ROYAL QUESTIONER. 125 

It shook the lone 

Wide air into a soft, delicious thrill of sound, 
That reached the heart's profound, 
And lit with hope its lampless bound. 
" O tortured one. 

Thine anguish has its utmost done. 
Dost thou not see 
Thy limitless expanse of destiny? 
Because within thy soul 
There dwells the vision of the whole. 
The world's vast scene of violence 
Offends thine inner loftier sense. 
Thou art the King ; 
Dost think a slave could bring 
Against the All such questioning ? 
Thy toil and pain 
Are only steps to perfect gain ; 
Within thy heart reside 
The pure realities that shall abide, 
That rule all spaces and all times. 
And bind all chaos in a poet's rhymes. 
Within thee find the kingdom sure 
That shall endure ; 
And in the light of joy and hope 
Heaven's doors shall ope, 
And on thy tranced sight shall fall 
The vision of the Supreme Wisdom, guarding, loving 
all." 

VIII. 
Then, like a rose 

That in a queen's deserted garden blows, 

II 



126 THE ROYAL QUESTIONER. 

And fills the barren waste 

With splendor chaste, 

The moon shone in the east ; 

And, one by one, the stars 

Rode into sight upon their viewless cars ; 

Till the mild glow, increased 

To a pale sea of light, 

Flooded the night ; 

And, like faint echoes of some subtle song. 

That tenderest memories prolong. 

The winds made utterance sweet, 

And sped on swiftest feet 

Across the air's wide mere, 

And utterly displaced the latest shade of fear. 



LONGING. 127 



LONGING. 



I. 



Will it be, will it be, in the ages to come, 
In the years of our life in other spheres. 
When we shall have gathered the whole vast sum 
Of suffering, and winnowed the wheat from the chaff? 
Or will the small scope of the years 

We spend on this earth. 

In plenty and dearth, 
Wherein we labor and seldom laugh, 
Reveal the precious, the priceless boon. 
The meaning, the sense of the mystic rune, 
Inscribed on our foreheads, engraved on our hearts ? 

II. 

Ah, the earth is old and gray : 
In the voice of the night and sound of the day. 
In the cry of its deep abysses 
And all its wildernesses. 

In the howl of jungled beast and hiss of crested snake. 
In the moan of the vast immemorial sea. 
In the sigh of the homeless wind. 
In the pitiless fall of the snow, fierce flake by flake, 
In the winter trees like old age pinched and 
thinned. 
In the sobs of all living things that be, 



128 LONGING. 

In the tears of the poor in the pestilent city 
Over whom the skies shut devoid of pity, 
In the whole wide anguish, 
Wherein the slow months languish, 
That nowhere finds Hope, or Heaven, or God, 
But back into the night of fear has trod, — 
In the one large toil of the world and the soul. 
Do you note the stress of longing? 

III. 

What is it that we seek? 
What is it that we crave ? 
In the atmosphere chill and bleak — 

Wherein we dwell — 
Our breathing is hard and slow : 
We call on Nature to save ; 
We strive to burst the spell 
That binds us in bonds we deeply know. 

IV. 

With passion, with might. 

We seek the light. 
Like the plantlet in the ground, 
Like a soul in a swound, 
Like a truth expressed in speech, 
Like a heart endowed to teach, 
Like a poet rudely hurled 
In the tumult of the world. 
Like a prophet whom men scorn, 
Like a world in space new-born, 



LONGING. 129 

With passion and with might 
We seek the light. 

V. 

This is the sense of the mystic rune 

Inscribed on our foreheads, engraved on our hearts ; 
This is the sense of the marvellous tune 

The bent trees sing, when the wild wind parts 
The thick-woven clouds that hide the sky ; 
The bee in the clover, 
The swift bird-rover 
Seeking the climes that warmly lie 

In the sun's straight beam, 
The flush of summer, the return of spring, 
The sweet new thoughts May and April bring, 

The voice of the loosened stream 
When winter has sought his northern lair. 
And the earth rejoices in the sunlight fair, 
The growth of grasses, the shinings of stars, 

The interchange of night and day, 
All growth that struggles to burst the bars 

Setting it hinderance and delay, 
All storm, all tumult, that fills the breast, 

Utters the secret as best it may. 
Life seeks a beyond, a highest, a best. 

VI. 

Will it be, will it be. 

Will the sure light shine ? — 
Behind the veil, beyond the sea, 

Will peace be thine and mine ? 



130 LONGING. 

VII. 

Lo ! the stress of longing shall create 
That it longs for ; bear and wait ; 
Lo ! the ages in their toil and dust 
Have not faltered in their trust ; 
Life shall widen, grow completer, 
Passion fainter, labor sweeter ; 
In the longing see expressed 
Promise of the happy rest. 
Since the soul is nobler far 
Than all things that in time are. 
Not in temporal gauds and goods 
Can its higher-flying moods 
Find the calm it seeks perforce : 
Nobler, loftier is its course. 
Therefore through all Nature's spheres 
Ceaseless longing still appears ; 
Therefore passion, bitter pain, 
Reigns within the soul's domain. 

VIII. 

Complete is the soul, 
It demands the whole \ 

Its rest is sure, 

And shall endure. 
Through the might of longing it will surely gain 
Its dwelling upon the celestial plain ; 
Clothed in the sun, and robed in the sky. 
Knowing nor low nor high, 
At the heart of things, in the bosom of God, 
Its journeyings will end, all roads overtrod. 



WEAVING. 131 



WEAVING. 



I. 



Thou canst not rest ; 
All day thou sittest 
In a toil most blest ; 
All the day long thou weavest 
Sweet dreams in which thou believest ; 
All the day long thou sittest, 
And into the dream thou fittest 
Soft color and passionate splendor, 
All things most fierce and tender, 
All hopes, all faiths, all visions, 
The soul's superb derisions 
Of futile wrong's misprisions. 
Life's uttermost swift pleasures, 
And whatso of pure treasures 
Is kept for rarest trances, 
And fugitive glad glances. 
When the mystery unfolds, 
And Heaven no farther fastness holds. 

II. 

Subtle weaver ! 

Fearest thou no deceiver ? 
Dost hold for true 
All thy quick hands may do ? 



T32 WEAVING. 

What if thou wake from dreaming, 
And find mere shadowy seeming 
Thy webs of joy and beauty, 
Thy miracles of duty, 
Thy mystical clear Heaven, 
Thine attendant spirits seven, 
Thy God, in whom thou belie vest. 
Who weaves in all thou weavest — 
What if a dream 
These but seem, 
And thou more frail than air. 
With thy bliss and despair, 
Passest as the night 
Flees the light ! 

III. 

Yea, thou weavest on 

Till the daylight be gone, 

Till the sea have an end, 

And the Heavens shall bend. 

The bright stars fall 

From the blue sky's hall. 

Till the winds shall come together 

In one burst of mixed weather. 

And fleet away 

From the realm of day. 

Till the passage of the year 

Will no more appear, 

The vast web of things 

Assume broad wings. 

And God and the world 

In one ruin be hurled. 



WEAVING. 133 

IV. 

Weave, weave ! 

Thee no destiny can deceive ! 
For the King of weavers sits 
At the world-loom, and he fits 
All thy threads in pattern fine 
That can join his wide design. 

Weave, weave ! 

Thee no destiny can deceive ! 
Thou art but the serving-man. 
Doing what thy strong hands can ; 
But the Master works and dwells 
In thy labor, and he tells 
Into thine attentive ear 
Tales that rid thee of all fear : 

The grace of flowers 

In the summer's bowers, 

The voices that spill 

Sweet songs on meadow and hill. 

The dance of the moon, 

To an unheard tune. 

Through the lustrous crowds 

Of maiden clouds, — 
Still the season will return 
Having these within her urn ; 

The truth of sages, 

And the poet's miraculous pages, 

All deeds of good 

That resound through the solitude 

Of the buried past. 
All these are thine : 
12 



134 WEAVING. 

These will last, 

And these will shine ; 

For the Supreme Weaver sits 
At the world-loom, and he fits 
These into his wide design. 
Lo ! thy weaving is but his 
Love of thy deep ecstasies ; 
Wherefore fear not, day or night, 
Sleep of sleep or sight of sight. 
And of all thou dost or art 
He is the inner, better part. 
Soul of soul, and breath of breath, 
And, at last, thy death of death ! 



MY SHIP. 135 



MY SHIP. 



I. 



Whither, oh, whither, my ship, wilt thou go? 
I launch thee upon an invisible sea; 
Through the gloom of dreams 
Where naught is but seems, 
Through the realms where the winds of wild hope blow, 
Through the chill, clear air and sunlight strong of 
thought. 
Through the land of sure reality, 
Through regions of splendor by marvellous hands of 
spirits wrought, . 
I watch thy sail 
Across the ocean's broad expanses pass and fail. 

II. 

From island to island thy swift sails bear thee. 

From continent to continent thy sharp keel glides ; 
Where the wild wind abides 
In his home of storms, thy gleaming sails declare thee ; 

From the sweet green shores of summer lands 
Thy passionate joys and longings tear thee, 
Till the icy fields of the winter's regions, 
Resplendent with shine of innumerous legions 
Of sun-touched sparkles of stainless snow. 
Engird thee with lambent and languid glow. 



136 MY SHIP.. 



III. 



Wilt thou not pause and rest, 
By the mild winds be caressed 
Of a patient love that would bind and hold thee, 
In arms of quiet and slumber enfold thee, 

Shield thee from pain, and keep thee unoppressed 

In its warm storm-shielded nest ? 
Nay — nay — through the measureless reaches of time, 

And boundless changes of possible spaces, 
Mutable bliss of mutable climes. 

Vagrant joys of mutable places, 
Summer and winter and silver spring, 
Late autumn when the birds no longer sing, 
Passions and splendors and aspirations. 
And Pleasure's multitudinous-clothed nations, 
Sorrows, and all the delight they bring, — 

Sail, O my ship, sail, O my thought. 

Seek what none other has ever sought ; 
On ways untrod save by royal feet, 
On winds for weaklings too rapturous-fleet, 

Speed, O my ship; 
Linger not where the dull time employs 
Sullen labor in sullen joys ; 
Forth through the ether, my ship, my thought. 
Through regions thine own impulses have wrought. 
Ceaselessly sail. 
Till thou sink and fail 
In the heart of sovereign and sunlike God, 

In the passionate soul that floods the world, 
Till the path thy keel has overtrod 

Leads to the light in whose glory hurled 



MY SHIP. 137 

Thou wilt mix, O my thought, with the life that is, 
With the supreme bliss of supremest bliss, 

With the strife and the life 

Wherewith the All is rife, 

Till thou wilt be 
Conjoined with the sovereign Divinity ! 



12^ 



138 SUCCESS. 



SUCCESS. 



I. 



He has failed, you say : 

From the rise to the set of day 

His name is not heard : 

He has abandoned his lofty schemes, 

He is lost in idle dreams, 

The event has not occurred, 

His star is not seen in the sky, 

There is nothing left him save to die. 



II. 

Poor fool ! in your little world 

The all is not done ; 

Much is finished, much begun 

Beyond the circlet of your life. 

Since when has the stream been hurled 

Of the universal strife 

Over your mountain wall 

To foam and appall. 
Where the peaceful denizens of your vale 
Meet each the other with simple all hail ? 



SUCCESS. ' 139 



III. 



Nay, if, in all the spheres 
That greet your eyes and ears, 
No banner uprears 
The emblazonment of his name, 
How dare yoii call his labor halt and lame ? 
He thinks, he lives, he is, 
He fulfils the hidden Destinies, 
He has chosen the silent part 
Held close to Nature's heart. 
He breathes the breath of her being, 
He sees in the sight of her seeing. 
He heeds not the loud applause. 
He needs not a herald of his cause. 
Prate of your slender successes, 
Thrid your conventional wildernesses ; 
He has passed the farthest portal, 
He has dropped the vesture mortal, 
He has reached the end 
Where Man and Life blend, 
The ultimate Height, 
Bathed in the World-soul for air and for light. 



140 THE FIELD. 



THE FIELD. 

What dost thou think thy field will bear 

In the unknown years to come? 
Blossom and fruit most rich and rare, 
Trees where the birds are never dumb? 

The tears fell like large drops of rain 

Upon the wasted field \ 
Dost think thy loss will be sure gain, 
Thy tear-sown ground sweet harvest yield ? 

Or, like the sea's unploughed demesne, 

Burst only into flower 
Of windy flash and barren green 
At fitful will of the sun's power ? 

Will from the bitter seed grow fruit 

Sweet as the breath of life ? 
Or can thy impetuous hope couipute 
The end of the unending strife ? 

This is a field wondrous and wide. 

Sown with all human tears ; 
Hark ! how the winds of sorrow gride, 
Freighted with sobs and sighing fears. 



THE FIELD. 1 41 

This is the field of human woe, 

Wet with all human tears ; 
How can the white flower, Joyance, grow 
From scattered seed of pains and fears ? 

Thou standest at the heart of night, 

And Hope, the nightingale. 
Has poured adown the dark with might 
Her final and impetuous wail. 

Now not a sound pervades the air, 

Now not a star recalls 
The time when youthful life was fair 
Within the golden morning's halls. 

Nay, if thou weep, profits it thee ? 

Will lifted voices pierce 
The iron sky of mystery 
That clasps and mocks thine anguish fierce? 

Sow thou in tears, let who will reap, 

Make no more questioning : 
Perchance if thou the summit steep 
Wilt climb, a sudden voice will sing 

Songs of consolement in thine ear ; 

Nay, but I cannot tell ; 
My toils to me as dark appear 
As thine, ruled by the self-same spell. 

Take thou thy burden in strong hands ; 

What right hast thou to claim 
Luxurious life in summer lands. 
And freedom from life's grief and shame? 



142 THE FIELD. 

Is it not better thus to be 
Girt for the noble goal. 
Than wrapped in pleasure's minstrelsy, 
And ignorant of thine own soul ? 

What signifies thy little life, 

So that the universe 
Proceed in light ? What if thy strife 
Lead thee from better unto worse ? 

What signifies thy little life. 

So that the general will 
Fulfil itself? What if thy strife 
Slay thee or ere thou climb the hill? 

Whoso will reap, sow thou in tears, 

Make no more questioning ; 
Hark ! through the night across thy fears 
Sweet sudden voices strangely sing. 

Perchance the just and best are all, 

Believe what seemeth right. 
But stand unshaken as a wall 
That scorns the whole sea's angry might ! 



WILD WIND OF THE NORTH. 143 



WILD WIND OF THE NORTH. 

Wild wind of the north, grim poet of the dark, 
Weaving your fancies across the night ; 

I seem to see them, forms gaunt and stark, 
And scenes that shun the cheerful light. 

Wild wind of the north, through the branches bare 
Blow with your might till their groanings sound 

Like the voice of a soul shut out from air, 
In the cell of some sin unfathomably bound. 

Wild wind of the north, under the gray sky 
Where never a star-point flickers or gleams, 

I stand and laugh and bid you go by 

With the noise of your manifold homeless streams. 

Wild wind of the north, fierce spirit of storm, 
Passion and rage of the heart of things, 

Soul of the strength that lusts to deform. 
Father of ruin and scatterings, 

Shatter the branches and whirl the sleet, 

Rock the unstable homes of men. 
Uproot tall oaks, and tread under feet 

Town and village and denizen. 



144 WILD WIND OF THE NORTH. 

Wild wind of the north, I fear you naught, 
My souls exults in the storm of your might, 

My thought flies far with impulsion caught 

From your impotent cries hurled down the night. 

Wild wind of the north, hold the globe in your grasp, 

Furl and unfurl the obedient skies. 
But more than the might of your strongest clasp 

Is the weakest of babe-souls uttering cries. 

Wild wind of the north, I laugh you to scorn, 
You sleep in my soul like a child at rest, 

I know you and bind you, and bid you adorn 
My triumph of visions within my breast. 

Wild wind of the north, come rest on my wrist, 
My falcon, my bird, my plaything, my sweet. 

Fold your strong wings, be still to be kissed, 
Hush your loud sadness, hither retreat. 

Wild wind of the north, a single star 
Conquers the clouds you heaped in hate. 

Shines and gladdens, and sends afar 

Her challenging light to your empty state. 



THE EVENING STAR. 145 



THE EVENING STAR. 

Ah, star ! that bring'st the deep still night, 

With shine of silver careless light, 

Set far in lone expanse of sky, 

With no sweet sister star near by, 

Hast thou no dreams that from thy peace 

Reach out to gain life's golden fleece? 

Art thou content with lonely bliss, 
And lofty calm, and thought's cold kiss? 
With stormless sphere dim clouds above — 
Dim clouds of hope and fear and love — 
And all the ills that help make up 
The mixed wine of sad life's cup? 

Thy shining knows nor pause nor rest, 
Thou seemest glad and unoppressed. 
Thou know'st not sorrowing, piteous tears, 
Thou seem'st unshaken by dim fears ; 
But thou art silent as gross stone. 
And thy white splendor dwells alone. 

Ah, star ! what mean these strivings fierce 
That shake our sphere, our hearts transpierce ? 
We fear with thee to climb thy height 
Encircled by wide waste of night ; 
We spurn the soil our feet must press. 
Yet quake to gain thy loneliness. 
13 



146 THE DROP. 



THE DROP. 

On the rose a rain-drop lay 

In the shadow by the river, 
And afar it saw the bay 

In the sunlight curve and quiver. 

Was it happy in its world 

Of cool gloom and pale sweet greenery, 
Sheltered from the winds that hurled 

Into woe the bay's dim scenery ? 

What was day or what was night 

To its faintly-hued seclusion, 
V/hile the raptures of fierce light, 

And the winds dared not intrusion ? 

But the haughty river rose. 

Scornful of the banks that bound it, 
And it poured its overflows 

In a weltering waste around it. 

Rose and violet and lily pale 

Perished in the wild commotion ; 

Ah, what eager hopes assail. 

As the drop speeds towards the ocean ! 

Mixed with all the tides it crept 

To the outer world of joyance, 
Where the wild winds whirled and swept, 

Where the fleet waves danced in buoyance. 



SNOW- MI ST. 147 



SNOW-MIST. 

Thin, subtle, woven fine, 

Pictures quick dismissed ; 
Wind-blown, rapid, sober shine. 

Fickle, changing mist. 

Round the tree-boles, barren, slim. 

Round the branches bare, 
Windy snow-waves sinuous swim, 

Ride the snow-foamed air. 

On his gray, sad throne of cloud 

Sits the north wind bold. 
Has his frosty claims allowed, 

Rules with wand of cold. 

Sifted fine, and still more fine, 

Weaving transient webs, 
Images of transient shine, 

Snow-mist flows and ebbs. 

Fierce and fiercer blows the wind, 

Sifts, and lifts, and sifts. 
Thickens where soft heaps have thinned. 

Scatters ridged drifts. 

Atom, atom, and wind-life, 

World-scheme on world-scheme, — 

Whither tends the pauseless strife, 
Flake and gusty gleam? 



148 THE CLIFF. 



THE CLIFF. 

In a lonely land, 
Sombre and dread, 

A tall cliff reared 
Its giant head. 

It was brown and bare, 
But the sunrise glow 

Shone from its top 
Like silver snow. 

Firm-rooted it was j 

The earthquake's shock. 

Or the strong wind's might, 
Moved not the rock. 

It seemed as old 

As the primal earth ; 

No mind could tell 
The date of its birth. 

A million storms 

Had thundered in vain ; 
It seemed to laugh 

At the elements' strain. 

The fierce sea foamed 

Around its base, 
But no change came over 

Its granite face. 



THE CLIFF. 149 

The stars at night 

Looked down in dread, 
And dreamed it should be 

When they were dead. 

The midsummer sun 

Begirt it with flame ; 
It stood not more calm 

When the winter came. 

But a soft breeze blew, 

And it bore a flower 
Plucked from the peace 

Of a lady's bower. 

Softer than light. 

Softer than air, 
It touched the cliff 

With the blossom fair. 

And the mighty rock 

Was shattered apart 
From glittering top 

To fathomless heart ! 



13^ 



150 THE ROSE. 



THE ROSE. 

The pale blue sky gleams through the opening leaves, 
The shadows play across the ground and air, 

The yellow sunlight round leaf-rims retrieves 
Its vanquished splendor where the foliage fair 
Shuts out the grass from its fierce pulse and care. 

I hear the silence from my window seat, 
And feel the summer entering my veins, 

And know with what strange joys the hour-hearts beat; 
The fervorous hours that dance the fleeting plains 
Where Love has birth and sweetest Joy remains. 

I see across the way the maid I love. 

Lissome and shy, a part of summer's might, 

A life not fallen below, or risen above, 

The bliss of nature's calm, and golden light, 

A maid at flower-stage, flower-like fair and bright. 

I know how nature has sheer joy for core, 
How trees put on their leaves for pure desire 

To be and live, how clouds dispart in more 

And more for sweet love's sake, and the sun's fire 
Engirds the world as sounds from some great lyre. 

I know the secret of the rose, a flame 

Upon its slender stem, the sun's fire burst 

Into a visible thing our hearts can name, 

A fire of love in its fierce father-flame immerst. 

The word that love and nature live to frame. 



THE STAR. 151 



THE STAR. 

Star, O star, hast thou a story 

Thy silver beams write 

On the page of the night 
Of million-yeared labor, and cycle-old glory? 

Star, O star, in thy beams are united 

The flash and the flame. 

From worlds without name. 
Of passionate joys and loves unrequited. 

Star, O star, when the deep night darkens, 

I watch thee glow, 

And somehow I know 
Thy heart in a song my rapt soul hearkens. 



152 RESURGENCE. 



RESURGENCE. 

This is the time of the year's new birth when leaves 
and grasses, 

Blooms sweet-colored, and winds mild-winged, return 
in their freshness. 

Winter is dead, and all the time of ruin and wailing. 

Sweetly smiling, and promising purple delights in the 
summer, 

Joy sets her foot on the earth, and, in answer to her 
enchantment. 

Light comes back to the world in a sunrise warm and 
golden. 

Who refrains from rejoicing, or who remains in bondage 

Winter, with mistily-falling snows and ice like iron, 

Pitiless forged for us, soul and body? Weary longings 

Troubled our hearts for the coming of spring, and life, 
and the sunlight. 

Lo ! like a sea miraculous, flooding the land as with 
laughter. 

Comes the dominion of flower, and leaf, and low- 
bowing grasses. 

Surely again returns the dominion of smiles and re- 
joicings ; 

Surely back to their fastnesses in the sad spaces of 
sorrow. 

Doubt, and fear, and weeping will flee like snows in 
the sunshine. 



RESURGENCE. 153 

O my heart, will not youth and the bliss of its mar- 
vellous visions, 

Cloud-shapes fantastic, woven in hours of hope, and 
unshadowed 

Trustfulness, filling with glory as of suns supernatural 
the deep sky 

Doming the ancient half-forgotten dreamings — O my 
heart, say, 

Will they return and reclothe and relume, as with 
lustre of blossoms, 

All the bleak spaces which sorrow and years, like ice- 
girdled winter, 

Made in the spirit ? Speak, O my heart, canst make 
responses 

Stilling the clamors that din in thine ears, and noises 
of weeping, 

Half-suppressed as for shame and the courage of des- 
peration ? 

Seems it all in vain ? Nay, useless are dreams and 
questioning. 

Never returns the past, nor the things having been 
which are not ; 

Never returns the power which turned, like a wand 
Mercurial, 

Sorceries of pain into weird and mystical enchantments 
of pleasure ; 

Nor the touch, like that fabled of old in the fingers of 
Midas, 

Potent to spiritualize to golden and lovely resplen- 
dence 

All the dull shows of the life we spend our breath in 
the living. 



154 RESURGENCE. 

Take thou the day and the hour ; what though the sun 

is hidden, 
What though the clouds are weaving their gray and 

gloomy engirdment 
For the pale welkin, what though the air is solemn 

and heavy, 
Life, and time, and labor remain thee, and, in the 

spring-time, 
Swift memorial gleams of the sweet-voiced times which 

return not. 
Clouds in flocks o'ertravelling the deep blue concave, 

blossoms. 
Birds, and winds, in whose hearts reposes the measure- 
less sunshine. 



THE NEW DAY. 155 



THE NEW DAY. 

Sweet day, that openest fair to sight 
With gentle floods of early light, 
And calm cool winds that pass and fleet 
On softly-stepping viewless feet, 
I give my heart up unto thee 
And float upon thy glad-waved sea. 
Unto what isles of better hope. 
What mountain-tops of loftier scope, 
What vales of grassy low content 
Where life in simplest joy is spent, 
What intercourse with flood and rill, 
What knowledge of the clouds that fill 
With cheerful concourse the blue sky, 
What chance to dare, what deed to try. 
What poet's fancy to unroll, 
What leap to learning's utmost pole, 
The point of sight and vantage-ground 
From whence all mystery is found 
In clearest regulation bound, 
What sympathy with nature's heart, 
Wilt thou unto my soul impart? 
The glassy width of mountain lake, 
Wherein the tall trees ever take 
Miraculous bath, and while on high 
They spread their branches to the sky 



156 THE NEW DAY. 

And know the secret of the sun, 

Yet downward still the images run 

And bathe themselves within the realm 

Where spirit sits beside the helm, 

As man looks forth upon the earth 

Yet knows his inner higher worth, 

The shapes of leaves that show the stress 

Of nature's toiling kindliness. 

The shadows woven across the trees. 

Imagination's witcheries, 

The outer show and symbol glad 

Of joys the watchful guardians bade 

Be given to poets as their lot, 

Dream following dream of the Unforgot, 

The century-old shapes of desire 

Girt by the glow of wondrous fire. 

Wilt thou the secret of all these, 

That sound within thine every breeze. 

Yea more, the mysteries of the mind 

That with each human breath resigned 

Into thy keeping, make thy sphere 

The fluent home of hope and fear, 

Wilt thou endeavor to make plain 

Unto me, hearkening every strain 

That pulsates from thine east and west 

And throbs thy sky's benignant breast? 

For I would say some slender part, 

Not wholly with quaint rustic art, 

But fashion for mankind to hear 

One faultless song, one dome uprear. 

Of precious sound that crystalline 

And pure of stain might glow and shine 



THE NEW DAY. 157 

Upon the age's restless sea, 
So wrought of love's high minstrelsy, 
That outpoured love of the after-world 
Should keep it safe, nor see it whirled 
To da;rk deeps of oblivion, 
Being born of joy and deftly spun 
Of the eterne substance of the sun. 
Above the body's clamorous weight, 
That heavy is with sloth and hate, 
I rise into the region glad 
Where sweet discourse with thee is had, 
The region fine and spiritual, 
Where all division is but thrall 
To deeper union, and the power 
Is seen of love, whence like a flower 
Of flowers in manifesting clear 
The universe is born, and fear 
Perishes like an altar smoke 
Against the lofty roof-groins broke. 
I see the soul of everything. 
And from that vision joy to sing ; 
And you, O world, may stand to know 
What meanings through my new song flow, 
The song upon my lips alit, 
Born of clear fire, and bold with it, 
A bird not seen yet among men, 
A miracle past common ken, 
An unconsuming winged flame 
That from mid-heaven's most purest came, 
A rose of birds, a flower of song, 
Bird-like and flower-like, strange and strong, 
And saying with voice most utter true, 
14 



158 THE NEW DAY. 

The new in the old, and old in new, 
The secret poets have ever sung, 
Why the round earth in air is swung, 
Why planets glow with borrowed light, 
And blossom stars strew all the night, 
Why rivers murmur as they go, 
And the great winds blow to and fro. 
What marvellous motions toss and roll 
Within the bounds of boundless soul. 
O day, I mix myself with thee. 
And in thy freedom, too, am free, 
And from my lips I soon shall pour 
The throng of words that more and more 
May bring all listening hearts to thrill 
With passions that their music fill. 
And men forget their sore dismay. 
Born into glow of the New Day. 



BEFORE WINTER. 159 



BEFORE WINTER. 

The ashen-hued November sky 
Makes cheerless all the chilly air; 

Upon the walks the dead leaves lie, 
And silence hovers everywhere. 

A week ag^o the happy sun 

Had laughed his way across the blue, 
And all the trees a garb had won 

More lovely than the spring-time knew. 

Adown the streets a golden fire 

Had leaped from tree to neighboring tree ; 
A flame as of some deep desire 

Had scaled each bough resistlessly. 

The maples here and there had shone 
Like prophets in the glow of speech ; 

And autumn breezes faintly blown 
Some subtle secret striven to teach. 

The harvest had been gathered in, 
A splendid smile had flushed the land. 

And hearts strange joyance seemed to win 
By ways they could not understand. 



i6o BEFORE WINTER. 

Across old Time's o'erarching sky 
The sunset of the year had spread, 

And in its rich and plenteous dye 
A gracious promise we had read. 

But now around us moans the wind, 
And through the rustling leaves we go ; 

Like men with faces pinched and thinned 
Against the sky the bare trees show. 

A dim foreboding fills our hearts, 
A sombre frown enrobes the day ; 

Our numbing fancy sadly parts 

With shapes too briefly bland and gay. 

We hear the Winter clank his chain, 
His winds are gathered in the north. 

His snows are marshalled on their plain 
Of cloud, intent to sally forth. 

Which shall our doubting hearts believe. 

The grievous thoughts this drear wind brings, 

Or the sweet thoughts that did receive 
Glad hues from autumn's colorings? 

Ah, inmost voices whisper soft, 
October's skies shone not in vain ; 

The year, its gayer plumage doffed, 
Permits the winter's sober reign. 

Beneath these sad vicissitudes 

Some strong reality abides, 
That winter's regnance still eludes, 

And into genial spring-time glides. 



BEFORE WINTER. i6l 

From state to state the wonder speeds, 

It cannot rest, perforce it grows, 
And past its brief eclipses leads 

To times when all its splendor glows. 

One summit gained, another looms, 

The wonted strife begins anew; 
At intervals, beyond these glooms, 

The home of souls gleams on our view. 



H^ 



1 62 NOON. 



NOON. 

All night my thoughts in wild commotion tossed, 
And sleep forsook the precincts of my brain ; 

The question in quick-changing guises crossed 
My soul, with fear and suifering in its train. 

The night was dark ; nor stars nor moon did shine, 
And loudening winds by fits laughed mockingly ; 

Ever before my sight the silvery line 
Of some idea seemed in scorn to flee. 

With unremitting might I strove to reach 

The thought that held within its scope the truth ; 

But still I failed, like infants trying speech, 
Or boys essaying tasks beyond their youth. 

The waning night brought no increase of rest, 
I clamored for the coming of the morn ; 

Surely with dawn the storm that shook my breast 
Would calm its anger and allay its scorn. 

The ruddy sunrise burned along the east ; 

I rose, and sadly watched the growth of light ; 
The day called men and nature to its feast. 

But I remained imprisoned by the night. 



NOON. 163 

Lo ! sudden gleams within my darkened soul, 
From sources that I knew not, fell and shone; 

Could I but master the elusive whole, 

And call my vanished peace once more my own ! 

Throughout the morn I struggled hard and well ; 

The adversary slowly yielded ground. 
And from my soul removed his lessening spell — 

T felt my pain had gained its utmost bound. 

The sun seemed slow in climbing the steep sky. 
But step by step attained the wonted height ; 

The day passed to its throne, and from on high 

In broadening circles dropped and surged the light. 

Then flashed on me the kernel of my thought, 
And all my wearied powers fell into tune ; 

I saw the vision which I long had sought. 

And from the distant towers rang out the noon ! 



1 64 A SUMMER MORNING. 



A SUMMER MORNING. 

I STAND beside the stream, 
Whose ripples with the beam 

Of morning's Orient splendor shine and flow; 
I hear the low, sweet plash, 
And watch the small waves dash 

Against the banks, on which long grasses grow. 

Without a cloud, the sky- 
Sheds from its calm on high 

A benediction on the simple scene ; 
Across the pasture wide 
You see the slow stream glide. 

And just beyond the wood's thick garb of green. 

A peace past word or thought 

Its subtle charm has wrought 
On distant cornfields bending in the breeze ; 

It sounds in the bird's song, 

It sways in waves along 
The yellow wheat that girds the laborers' knees. 

Here, in the open field. 

The floods of sunshine yield 
A sense of some reality that fills, 

With waves on waves of light. 

Transcending human sight, 
All life that dumbly breathes, or conscious thrills. 



A SUMMER MORNING. 165 

Far off, within the wood, 

Starring its solitude, 
Swift gleams of bickering radiance flash and fade; 

The light, through close-meshed leaves, 

Its vagrant beauty weaves 
Across the stream that waters wood and glade. 

And now the risen sun. 

Its lofty station won. 
Floods with its glory the horizon's bound ; 

The wild-flowers bend and laugh. 

The birds more gayly quaff 
The waters murmuring on with stilly sound. 

I cannot tell what joy 

Gives all my thoughts employ. 

And opens to my soul sweet fields unseen ; 
As though the shrouding veil 
That wraps earth's painful tale 

Had drawn aside its thickly-woven screen. 

I see, O sun ! I see 

The open mystery 
Of life and time thine opulence makes more clear ; 

O type of that deep peace 

That from its high release 
Floods with itself this world of grief and fear ! 



1 66 THE INLET. 



THE INLET. 

I WATCH the many-colored crowd, 
Passing me on the busy street, 

And marvel at the faces proud, 
Or sullen with low-browed defeat. 

The blue skies smile upon the earth, 
The winds are with the clouds at play. 

And happiness had surely birth 
With sundawn of the perfect day. 

I dream of all the secrets hid 
By placid brow or gloomy eye. 

As in some rock-built pyramid 

An unknown king or slave may lie. 

I feel the beat of every heart, 

And shed the tears tired eyes let fall, 

And thrill to know myself a part 

Of griefs that weary, hopes that thrall. 

Oh, can it be that my weak soul 

Is but an inlet of the sea, 
And knows the outer sweep and roll 

Of tides that forerun Destiny? 



THE INLET. 167 

If this be dreaming, let me hold 

The dear delusion to my breast ; 
Let me grow fearless, overbold. 

And dare the noblest and the best. 

Children of one sweet mother, heirs 
Of all the hopes that thrill all hearts, 

And owners of the mystic wares 

That shine within the spirit's marts. 

Masters of space and lords of time. 
Wearers of robes that History wove 

In far-off looms of every clime. 
In snow-clad wood or olive-grove, 

Each soul instinct with all and each, 

We rise at last unto the height, 
Foresaid in strange prophetic speech, 

Whence every darkness melts in light ! 



1 68 THE VOICE OF THE SOUL. 



THE VOICE OF THE SOUL. 

From realms of ether I came, 

In realms of ether I dwelt, 
Where souls like a circling flame 

Round the throne of the Mystery melt. 

But a darkness on me fell, 

I stooped from my station high, 

And the mortal, like a spell. 
Estranged me from the sky. 

The light of my shining intense 

Grew dim in its vesture cold, 
And my heart's heaven-seeking sense 

Was dead as its girding mould. 

I forgot my primal life 

In the dream of my daily toil. 

In the noise of my daily strife, 

In the dust of the world's turmoil. 

One day the scales dropped from my eyes, 
I remembered my secret of birth ; 

I knew that I came from the skies. 
And held no kinship with earth. 



THE VOICE OF THE SOUL. 169 

In this river of time and sense 

I float my allotted span, 
I return to the regions whence 

I fell when I became man. 

Ennobled and purified, 

Freed from this prison of woe, 
I wait for the rising tide, 

I long for the shoreward flow. 

With the failing of this faint breath 

I shall be on the primal shore. 
In the spiritual lands of Death, 

In the Good for evermore. 



15 



lyo THE SIRENS. 



THE SIRENS. 

Over the mountains, and over the sea, 
Wilt thou, oh, wilt thou come with me? 
Deep-shadowed groves and meadows green, 
Splendors no mortal eye has seen. 
Singing and mirth the livelong day, 
These shall reward thine adventurous way. 

Nay, but thy skies were no longer fair, 
Golden thy sun, nor perfumed thine air, 
Happy thy blossoms, nor silver thy night, 
Glorious thy sea's tumultuous might, 
Sunderedst thou me from the hearts that I love 
In thy griefless expanse of regions above. 

Wilt thou remain a slave to thy pain, 
Bound in thy passion's unyielding chain ? 
What are thy loved ones unto thee, 
Sad with the whole of misery ? 
Flee from the midst of thy fierce distress 
To my pleasure's wanton wilderness. 

Nay, but the gloom of my bitter past 
Over thy skies will be surely cast ; 
Hast thou the power wholly to part 
Self from self, or heart from heart? 
Whither thou lead'st me, high or low, 
Surely myself must with thee go. 



THE SIRENS. 171 

Linger not here, but hearken to me, 
Seek thou my reahn's extremity; 
Wilt thou remain in thy semi-gloom. 
Haunted as by a perpetual doom ? 
Shatter the bonds that encircle thee, 
Dare to be grandly, utterly free. 

Nay, but thy words are vague as the air, 
Trouble me not with thy speeches fair ; 
Whither I go, my word must be said, 
My oak-leaf won, my arrow sped ; 
What matter gloom and bitter pain? 
The end is peace, and that is gain. 



172 FAITH. 



FAITH. 

Tempt me no more ! I hear thee in the dark, 
Muttering thy words of import dire ; 

Mine eyes fill up with tears, and hardly mark 
My one star paling all its fire. 

What hast thou not ta'en from me? joy and hope, 
And life's last priceless, chiefest gift, 

Trust that the world has one o'ermastering scope. 
And suffering's clouds gloom but to lift. 

I stand alone beneath the deepening night. 
And hark the circling winds that moan, 

And bear afar upon their homeless flight 
All grief's impassioned undertone. 

All time's great woe seems poured upon the air. 
The oceaned pain engirds me round ; 

My heart grows cold within me, and I dare 
Not sink beneath the weight of sound. 

My one star pulses pale and ghostly sad 
On the black void that apes the sky ; 

Will it, too, perish, borne on ways that had 
No pity for my truths most high ? 



FAITH. 173 

Nay, thou shalt shine though all the splendid host 
Merge in the void that mocks at thee, 

A beacon on heaven's barely-outlined coast, 
An island on the storm-swept sea. 

kin to what is deepest in my heart. 
The energy to be and live, 

The force that rules all change, and hath no part 
In aught the Night and Death may give. 

From thee shall spring strange influences to call 

The light back to each starry shell 
That floats across the sight in bond and thrall 

To the base Night's o'erpowering spell. 

The stars that woke with laughter of the spring 

Shall re-arise in skies that know 
The subtle perfumes Love's sweet bowers shall fling 

From blooms that shine and joys that glow. 

Tempt me no more with mutterings of ill ! 

I will keep vigil till the rose 
Of morning's lucency begins to thrill 

From peak to peak of mountain snows. 

1 will not lose thee, O my light of light. 

Thou shalt not pass forth of my gaze; 
Through thee I will make conquest of the Night, 
And bring the sun back to my days. 

Whatso will falter, toward thy glow I spring, 
And, know not harm nor bitter scathe ; 

Whatso slips from me, unto thee I cling. 
And lose not my deep faith in Faith ! 

15^ 



174 THE QUEST, 



THE QUEST. 

At the gate of the stately garden 
The young man bravely stands ; 

Afar 'mid the trees the palace 
Overlooks the circling lands. 

At the heart of the world, at the centre, 
Where the pulse of the universe beats. 

He stands and he bids them open — 
He is scarred with many defeats. 

Behind him he sees the marvels 
Of the untold worlds of space, 

Of the myriad forms of living. 
Of the spirit's visible face. 

Before him he sees the splendor 
Of the infinite might that creates, 

Of the life that upholds and strengthens. 
Of the love that labors and waits. 

He stands at the gate in patience. 
He fears not the wardens grim, 

He has passed through the trackless forest. 
There is naught can terrify him. 



THE QUEST. 175 

Though his head grow white with the ages, 
Though the storm howl round him apace, 

Though the night come moonless and starless. 
He never reverses his face. 

In the palace the servants are busy, 
They furnish the room for the guest, 

For the soul that has travailed and conquered, 
That has ceased not from its quest. 

He stands till the gate be opened, 

He knows that the end is sure, 
That the Soul of all souls has heard him, 

That the might of his joy shall endure. 



176 FOREVER. 



FOREVER. 

Over the snow I took my way, 
Just after golden break of day, 
From dreams no tongue can rightly say. 

The morning air made me feel glad 

As fairy breezes Galahad ; 

I walked with expectation clad. 

The mists around me rolled and curled, 
Like waves by a fierce storm upwhirled. 
Or thoughts in a wild tumult hurled. 

The linked clouds hid all the sky. 
Save where the sunrise made on high 
A splendor you might deem God's eye. 

My sight was to the sunrise turned, 
Its light within my spirit burned. 
My feet the snowy pavement spurned. 

Into the light I took my way. 

Just after golden break of day. 

From dreams no tongue can rightly say. 



THE ETERNAL HEIGHTS. 177 



THE ETERNAL HEIGHTS. 

Out of the tyranny of moods we must wander 
Into the land of still, calm thought ; 

Life is so hard, no one may squander 

Aught of the might whereby is wrought 
The realization with anguish bought. 

This is the part of the coward and trembler, 
To whiten whenever the trouble comes ; 

This is the part of the basest dissembler, 

To falter and quake when the drooped head hums 
With the noise of the enemy's jeering drums. 

The scene of life's tasks makes little matter ; 
A failure here may be victory there ; 

But the soul must grow used to the hateful clatter 
Of diverse aims, that fills the air 
Through which we journey to summits fair. 

And these shine on in eternal sunlight. 

Though mists obscure them from our view ; 
They shine in the splendor of the mystical One Light, 

The light of Love, the light of the True ; 

Our eyes have seen them when skies were blue. 

They shine in the soul ; man holds them within him ; 
They shine though the outmost be dark and chill ; 

They seem to beckon as though they would win him 
To climb their sides ; all is done if his will 
Swerve him to ascend the utmost hill. 



178 ^47.5:. 



FATE. 

Three steps and I reach the door, 
But a whole month rolls between 

Since last I stood before 

My shut room's simple scene. 

I pause at the door and shrink, 
My hand is at point to turn, 

But I stand and dimly think 
Of all I long for and yearn. 

My life leaps up to me there, 
The past with its every deed. 

And I tremble and hardly dare 
The open mystery to read. 

A year and a day and awhile, 
Ay me ! there is none escape ; 

Each thought, each dream, each smile 
Will front me in questioning shape. 

I open and see what no eyes 

Save mine have the power to see ; 

Dead scenes and dead griefs arise. 
Dead follies make mouths at me. 

Yea, so : through the dark I peer, 
And shudder away from the door ; 

Voices once heard I hear. 
Know faces seen long before. 



A THOUGHT. ■ 179 



A THOUGHT. 

You tremble, you shudder, you wince. 
The trouble is hard to bear, 

And Time has no power to convince 
That good is the heart of despair. 

You tremble, you shake, you thrill, 
The bliss is too much to bear. 

And Time has the power to fill 
Your soul with its secret fair. 

Ah, sorrow and bliss are twins. 
And joy is yoke-fellow with care. 

And who the sweet former wins 
The weight of the other must bear. 

Who feels not pain in its might. 
Can feel not the sweetness rare 

Of the hope that fills the night 
With its moon-like lustre fair. 



i8o SOLITUDE. 



SOLITUDE. 

The king sat on his throne, 
Alone, alone. 

Without, the sunlight fell 
On hill and dell. 

Beside the brooklet strayed 
Lover and maid. 

Each bird sang to his mate, 
With spring elate. 

The king was sad and cold. 
Though clad in gold. 

His heart sank in his breast, 
With woe opprest. 

His face was marred with scorn 
Of all things born. 

Within his golden halls 

Stood countless thralls. 

His frown compelled with awe, 
His word was law. 



SOLITUDE, l8l 

Without, the seasons came 
With snow and flame. 

All life, with changes fleet 
Of sad and sweet, 

Sought union with the whole, 
Its far-ofl" goal. 

He sat upon his throne, 
Alone, alone. 



16 



1 82 WARNING. 



WARNING. 

A WORD, a look, a deed, 
Each light as breathed air, 
May bring a sudden fate, 
And mystically breed 

The black flower of despair. 
Where rose called rose his mate. 

Where erst shone peace, the sun, 
And speech welled from the heart, 
A reckless smile or sigh 
Is but well past or done. 
And viewless walls dispart 
Two lives that wail and die. 

For souls are lightly set 
Upon the spiritual sky. 

As stars that speed and flame ; 
And if a shock or let 

Falls on the fair star nigh. 
His fellow feels the shame. 

Heed well the poet's song ; 
In gardens of the soul 

Breathe delicatest blooms; 
Beware to do them wrong. 
Lest thou fulfil the whole 
Air of thy life with glooms. 



ECHO. 183 



ECHO. 

As the leaves in autumn drear 

Float along the sobbing wind, 
As if gathering to the bier 
Of the swiftly-dying year, 

So my memories gather fast, 

Peopling the pale air of mind. 
Dig the graves of the sweet past, 
And throw on the mould at last. 

Like a dream of the dead night. 
Like a cloud of the wan eve. 
Like a wave that shone more bright 
For the yellow sun's delight, 

Joy on joy has gone to death ; 
In the dust I sit and grieve, 
And my body murmureth 
For the ceasing of its breath. 



1 84 INVITATION. 



INVITATION. 

Why art thou sad ? thou dost not tell ; 

Thou hast strange reason for the dim self-pity 
That holds thee as with an inflexible spell, 

And moulds to its gloom thy low-voiced ditty. 

Is it that thou dost hear the moan 

That fills with its sorrow eternity's spaces? 

Is it that thou hast hearkened the tone 

Of secret despair from life's inmost places? 

Nay, wake from thy slumber, come forth into light, 
Where the joyous waves of the wide sea glisten, 

And the sounds and the gloom of the sad mother-night 
Disturb not the songs whereunto we listen. 



PREMONITION. 185 



PREMONITION. 

Hark ! through the night didst thou hear the word 

That rang down the air its terror? 
Speak ! in the night didst thou fear the word 

That muttered the awful error 
Wherein thou art bound? 

Yea ! thou hast heard the cry of thy fate, 

Bondsman of woe and of sorrow ! 
Seek not to know, to fathom the why of thy fate ! 

In the sea of the awful to-morrow 
Thou art drowned ! — art drowned ! 



16' 



1 86 A PLATONIC HYMN. 



A PLATONIC HYMN. 

The sombre eastern skies 

Tremble with dawn's surprise, 
The crescent radiance floods the impatient air ; 

The golden sunrise glow 

Rises in overflow 
Above the wide-spread fields and waters fair. 

The moon low in the west 

Sinks downward dispossest, 
A pallid film of slowly-waning light ; 

A few stars linger yet, 

Worsted and sore beset. 
The remnants of the vanishing vanquished night. 

But yonder day-god yields 
The air's empurpled fields 

To regnance of the star-crowned night in turn, 
Possessing but half power. 
And giving place and hour 

To potencies that dimlier shine and burn. 

Not such thy might, O Sun ! 

Who the mid place hast won 
In the intellectual regions clear, serene ; 

Thy lofty centred throne 

Abides thy rule alone, 
Plato, who Life's profoundest Life hast seen. 



A PLATONIC HYMN. 187 

Around thee flash and flame 

All those of lesser name 
Who have loved the Truth and felt her sacred spell, 

Who, in the ideal sphere. 

Beyond this realm of fear, 
Have tasted waters of her secret well. 

The Orient dim and vast 

Before thy vision past 
With hoary seers and old gigantic gods ; 

India, mother of lands. 

Her mighty gates expands 
To thee in her unfathomed periods. 

And Egypt, vague and strange, 

Unfolds the mystic range 
Of all her priests and wonder-workers taught ; 

No peak remains unclimbed, 

No utmost depth unmined 
Within the wide-extending reach of Thought. 

Into the light at length 

Greece stepped in youthful strength, 

The nursling of the segis-bearing, blue-eyed queen ; 
Wisdom upon her smiled, 
An^ called her darling child. 

Favored and loved beyond all realms terrene. 

White-haired Parmenides, 
Across the tumbling seas 
Of Generation's many-changing waste, * 



1 88 A PLATONIC HYMN. 

Saw shine the mystic One, 
From whom all life begun, 
And in whose round all things and times are placed. 

Pythagoras, the mage, 

Transcending clime and age. 
Lived pure of stain, one with the Truth sublime ; 

He knew the dateless date 

Of all souls' happy fate. 
And Spirit's mastery of the sorcerer. Time. 

Socrates, called the Wise, 

Within whose kindly eyes 
All goodness shone, and through whose conquering wit 

Injustice clearly saw 

Its self-destroying flaw, 
And that the Right, by its own splendor lit, 

Is king of worlds and men — 

Martyr and denizen 
Of that realm glorious. Love, the Seer, controls, 

Girt by the reverence meet 

Of all the gods, thy seat 
Is next the Master's in the world of souls. 

Thee all of them surround, 

Plato, who passed the bound 
Set by the learning of the wise of eld. 

Thee for whom very Thought 

Revealed its secret, and who sought 
The One Ineffable and whose eyes beheld. 



A PLATONIC HYMN. 1 89 

Thy words became the source 
Whence Thought received its course 

In ages subsequent and born of thine ; 
Great Aristotle knew 
How much from thee he drew, 

Pure gold brought from thine inexhausted mine. 

Proclus, the dreamer high, 

Sought thee beyond the sky 
To fathom what thy deepest speech contains \ 

Plotinus into thee 

Swooned in his ecstasy, 
Being rapt unto the far empyreal plains. 

In darkness all was lost, 

And earth was tempest-tost 
While thou wert hidden from the face of men \ 

Again thy sun arose 

At the strange tempest's close, 
And thou wast leader of the van again. 

In Florence thy lost voice 

Once more bade Life rejoice. 
The bright Heaven of thy musings oped its doors ; 

Once more thy music rang, 

And the vext heart upsprang 
Into the light which from thy pages pours. 

And in these final days 
We have not failed to gaze 
Where thy hand points, and thy most wondrous words 



190 A PLATONIC HYMN. 

Recall us from the deep 
Possession by earth's sleep, 
And sing to us as very morning's birds. 

Yea, birds of Heaven, indeed, 
Not born of mortal seed. 

And pouring thy swift thought across the years. 
Thy swift exalting hope. 
That looks beyond the slope 

That leads down into this abode of tears. 

Honored be thy great name, 
Holy, and free from blame. 

Thou who hast shone a star unto us all ; 
Monarch and wise art thou. 
Around whose placid brow 

The laurelled praises of the ages fall. 



TUBEROSE. 191 



TUBEROSE. 

I. 

Flower, that I hold in my hand, 

Waxen and white and unwoful, 

Perfect with your race's lovely perfection, 

Pure as the dream of a child just descended from the 

heavens. 
Chaste as the thought of the maid on whose sight first 

shines the glow of love's planet, 
Trustful as a boy who holds the world in hands of 

power unrelaxing. 
Flower, graceful, lovely, 
Lo ! I give you to the waves that roll across the ocean's 

expanses. 

II. 

I watch you like a star on the waters, 

I watch you floating away in the distance ; 

The ocean gives you reception and dwelling, 

The ocean with the sweep of its world-encircling 

currents, 
With its storms and winds, — 
Mutable home where all is each and each is other. 

III. 

You show no signs of terror. 

You float to the mid-most whirlpool, 

You are made one with the unending streams, 



192 TUBEROSE. 

The moon and' stars are reflected in your changed 
bosom, 

The measureless winds enfold you with love as a gar- 
ment, 

Night and day and time are contained in your embraces, 

Clouds emerge from your heart and return, 

Life and death are as slender ripples across your cen- 
tral calmness, 

Hope and wishing and longing and tumult are over. 

Unto the all, your cradle and grave, your father-mother. 

You have returned, 

O flower transfigured ! 

O flower having reached your fruition ! 



A SIGH. 193 



A SIGH. 

I. 

Weary, ah, weary am I ; 
Scorn not thou this cry of sadness. 
Scorn not thou me who bow under many a burden ; 
See I am weak, and clamor for aid which I find not ; 
See I would be strong, and find each day new bonds 
engirding me. 

11. 

Oh, miglit I say in verses the wonderful clearness, 
Freshness, gladness, glory all the wide fields are robed in ! 
Oh, might I be even as they, 
Grateful for rain or for sunshine, 

Happy in spring when the grasses softly enclothe them, 
Bursting to flower, winsome smiles of their green ex- 
panses. 
Eyed with the splendor of streams that flow on in 

joyance. 
Laugh in summer to feel in their souls the sunshine. 
And are content in the winter to sleep in their icy 
enfoldment. 

HI. 

But peace I find not anywhere ; 

Change brings fear and trembling deep into my soul ; 
Would I could gain those heights empyrean 
Spirits attain who look through this garment of visions, 
Seeing beyond the immutable infinite calm of the soul ! 

17 



SONNETS. 



SUSPIRIA. 

Wilt thou return, who hast abandoned me, 

Thou whom I long for, thou whom I must love? 
I cast mine eyes unto the skies above. 

And see but gloom and clouds that turn and flee ; 

O moonrise or my sunrise, unto thee 

I pour my longing, and have not thereof 
So much of answer as one plume of dove, 

Fallen from swift wing of messenger to be 

Bringer of tidings glad and gentle words. 
In all this stillness I sink fast toward Death, 
No bodily ceasing but strange loss of soul ; 

Wilt thou not come, O Song, and wake the birds 
Within me, answering thy faintest breath, 
And sunwise smite the dark that is my dole ? 



17* 197 



19^ SUB-CONSCIOUS. 



SUB-CONSCIOUS. 

Wet with the last night's rain the wood-pile lies 
Beside the walk. Around the crooked sticks, 
Climbing with manifold coquettish tricks, 
A morning-glory vine its antics plies, 
And lights with vagrant gleam of green surprise 
The darkness of the earthy-colored wood ; 
And like a self-forgetting thought of good 
That mitigates the glare of sinful eyes. 
Or like pure longings for release from strife. 

Rare premonitions of the better part. 
That rise from deeps below the usual life, 

And send unwonted thrills through some worn heart. 
Amid the mouldy wood's fantastic rows 
A red and luminous morning-glory glows. 



SUNRISE IN WINTER. 199 



SUNRISE IN WINTER. 

From depth of dusky dream I woke, and crossed 
The new-fallen snow ; the sunrise splendor burned 
Along the sky, and like an alchemist turned 

The many clouds, mild winds had deftly tossed 

In shapes fantastical as those the frost 

Graves on the window-pane, to crimsoned gold; 
The changeful rosy mists, soft fold on fold. 

Crept, lit with radiance, where my gazing lost 

The curving sky; I stood within a vale 
Engirt by shifting hills of glorious mist; 

The morning air was glad with colored light. 
The trees like nuns stood wrapt in cloaks of bright 

Chaste snow, and from the chimney rose the pale 
Slow smoke to skies that shone clear amethyst. 



200 FOR PICTURES. 



FOR PICTURES. 
I. 

WAR. 

The night was black with cloud, as though the smoke 
Of battle had congealed, and risen to roof 
The world with gloom ; the lurid moon made proof 

Of regnancy won by the dark, and broke 

In waves of ghostly light; a shattered oak 
Stood in the foreground, and the sentinel 
Far off upon his height kept guard ; a spell 

Of horror filled the air as when awoke 
The cries of onset and appalled the day ; 

The half-extinguished flames of the burned town 
Were barely visible ; a soldier's corse 

And scattered heaps of shapeless things adown 
The plain appeared ; and, riderless, a horse 
Took flight and shrilled its agonizing neigh. 

II. 

PEACE. 

In waves on waves of light the high sun rolled 
Across the mid-noon air; midsummer held 
The breathing land, and from its realm expelled 

All shapes of fear; mild quiet, fold on fold, 



FOR PICTURES. 201 

Enwrapped the spreading scene, and in the gold 

Of summer's sun the grass and trees made joy ; 

Soft shadows from tall trees had sweet employ 
Upon the light-besprinkled stream ; made bold 
With bliss, the birds wheeled swift across the air ; 

The pastures stretched away to where the corn 
Rose tall, the farm-house broke the distance, fair 

And cloud-flecked shone the sky, and glad with scorn 
Of dull constraint, the horses tossed their manes. 
And all forgot their labors and hard pains. 



202 PROGRESS. 



PROGRESS. 

Ah, blessedness of work ; the aimless mind, 

Left to pursue at will its fancies wild. 

Returns at length, like some play-wearied child. 

Unto its labor's knee, and leaves behind 

Its little games, and learns to soothe its blind 

Wide longings in the sweet tranquillity 

Of limited tasks, whose mild successions wind 

In pauseless waves unto the distant sea; 

For blank infinity is cold as ice, 

And drear the void of space unsown with stars, 
And dolorous the barren line of shore ; 
Therefore it was with lover-like device 

This lower world was built, through whose cleft bars 
The limitless sun of Truth shines more and more. 



WORLD-SLUMBER. 203 



WORLD-SLUMBER. 

Two thousand years agone within the manger 

They laid the glorious Child, and through the sorrow 
That clothed the world like air, and grew each mor- 
row 
Denser with vaporous wrongs, and horrors, stranger 
Than all that went before, soft radiance, ranger 
From realms above, floated, and strove to borrow 
Heaven's fire to cleanse the many-centuried morrow 
From deep corroding stains ; and thou, dear changer 
Of old for new lamps, slept ; sweet infant slumber. 
Which dreams of rescued souls fulfilled of lucence. 
Whose slow-drawn breaths counted the whole 
world's risings 
From depths of dull despair, whose smiles did number 
Swift star-dawns on the world's night of recusance. 
And bathed mankind in bliss of its comprisings. 



204 FANDEMOS. 



PANDEMOS. 



I. 



What dim mysterious power holdst thou concealed 
In thy most varying play of smiles and moods? 
What soul dare tread thy marvellous solitudes 

Of passionate woes by murmurous utterance healed, 

Nor cast his whole life's ordinance repealed 
Before thee, that with hands of utmost power 
Thou mayst regift the reborn soul with dower 

Thy vagrant swift imaginations yield ? 

For life is at thy feet, and craves thy will, 
O love, O lady, sovereign of all lands 

Wherein wild pleasure from his horn doth spill 

Sweet flowers, whose odors bind with golden bands; 

For none may name thee, yet thou holdst men sure. 

And leadst them with unconquerable lure. 

II. 

Past the pale vales with lowly blossoms set. 

Where slender streams sing thinly-sounding songs. 
We have gone to where the nightingale prolongs 

Impassioned cadence, and all vain regret 

And hollow-hearted fear, snared in the net 
Of bliss, flutter and perish utterly. 
To where love's ultimate strong ecstasy 

New heart and soul in outworn life beget. 



PANDEMOS. 205 

Yea, drowned beneath thy golden infinite sea, 
Girt by thy multitude of warring waves, 

Mixed in the flow of thy unceasing streams, 
All souls who gain thine inmost sanctuary, 
Dwell in thy measureless expanse of graves. 
Live but as one of thy flame-clothed dreams. 

III. 

Black night and sea and the loud-sounding wind 

And voices muttering things ill-understood; 

O night gloom with thine utmost hardihood ; 
O sea mutter as one who deeply sinned ; 
O wind with hate inexorably twinned, 

Thy storms tumultuous gather thou apace ; 

O voices cry aloud through boundless space 
What has befallen ; lo ! spectres pale and thinned. 

Is this the end ? Here by the sullen shore 
The dream has faded with the sinking sun. 
Is the sweet singing past away and done? 

Shall eyes and smiles play sun and moon no more ? 
The inarticulate vast roar replies, 
And gradual clouds engulf the angry skies. 



18 



206 URANIA. 



URANIA. 



I. 



What silver, tremulous gleams sweep o'er the sea, 
Making the air more glad for drops of light. 
And severing in twain the moody plight 
Wherein my soul lay, and in flashing glee 
Garmenting the waves' lithesome witchery? 
Not all undone the potence of the night 
Sits in mine eyes, and through my languid sight 
So rules the day, that subtly come and flee 
Cloud-shadows 'twixt the sun and glowing earth; 
But to the shore long grasses creep and laugh. 
Upon the cliffs the green-clad trees make mirth ; 

I stand aloof, the summer joyance quaff", 
And through my heart unwonted pleasures flow. 
As through the land the river's sunrise glow. 

II. 

What thinkest thou? within the lonely glade 
The dryad dwells and dreams the livelong day 
How leaf by leaf her forest clothes the May 

With gold-green gloom and sunbeam-haunted shade ; 

Upon the sky whose slender clouds have made 
A web miraculous wherewith at play 
The winds have shown their inmost fancies gay, 

I read the splendid message which shall fade 



URANIA. 207 

No more from my deep heart or Nature's scene ; 
O soul of things attained and found at last, 
The love that is the fountain and the source 
Whence forests bring their periodic green, 
Whence sunlit clouds upon the winds fly fast, 
And passion gains its undiverted course ! 

III. 

O Love that holdst in sweet embrace 

All forms of life, nor basely clingst to one, 
Or in that one seeing but the centred sun 

Reflected, dost in clearest eyes but trace 

The lineaments of that Universal Face 
That was or ere the strife of sense begun, 
O Love whose image is most deftly spun 

Into the spirit of Life's chiefest grace. 

And leadst all feet to Beauty's shrine eterne, 
No longer lured on this or that strange way. 
And in all loves loving but thee alone, 

We cease the anguish of all those who yearn. 
Being made part of thyself and finding day 
Which but unto thy worshippers is known. 



2o8 THE SOUL SPEAKS. 



L— THE SOUL SPEAKS. 

Love is the key \ we may not climb the height 

Save the strong heart remains sure guide and friend, 
And, looking past these glooms unto the end, 

Expects each pulse the slow approach of light ; 

For we are weak, and wander in a night 

The wizard senses build, wherein they blend 
Strange flames of joys with splendor-stars that send 

Weird glamoury of glow across our sight, 

And we are bound in chains most hard to break ; 
But in our heart's abyss unfathomable 

The instincts toil of higher hopes and sweet, 

And as we climb, led by our loves, we take 

Best hold on truths that in these high realms dwell, 
And life's disclosures guide our eager feet. 



THE INTELLECT SPEAKS, 209 



II.— THE INTELLECT SPEAKS. 

We cannot walk thus lampless ; Thought alone 
Can find the clew out from this maze's turns ; 
Our faith and love wherewith our body burns 

End but in darkness silent as a stone ; 

For love hath end, and by our sorrow's moan 

Our truths are slain, and our great grieving spurns 
Our past belief, and all our labor earns, 

Despite tears shed, and without harvest sown, 

No space wherein to lay fore-wearied limbs ; 

The light of Life shines but where Thought most pure 
Communes with those fixed idealities 

Whose mastery weaves our tumults into hymns 
Of rarest sound, whose empire shall endure 
Till Death lays hands on God's own mysteries. 



18* 



2IO THE SPIRIT SPEAKS. 



III.— THE SPIRIT SPEAKS. 

Nay, out of conflict must come peace ; these twain 
Can wage no war upon whose bitter scorn 
There will not rise a reconciling morn, 

Nor may by either either yet be slain. 

Lo ! in the circle of my hands shall gain 

From each be brought the other's brow to adorn, 
And soothe the pain which severance sharp has borne ; 

For I of both have need, of both am fain. 

Lo ! unto Love the light of Thought is given ; 

Lo ! Thought's pale cheeks grow red with Love's 
own blood ; 
Lo ! I who hold them friends in my bright sway j 

Through me, through me, the bonds of earth are riven. 
The ship securely sails Life's treacherous flood. 
The sunrise burns of ever-widening day ! 



FULFILMENT. 2 1 1 



FULFILMENT. 

This is the secret; no fair blossom blows, 

No cloud sails softly down the sunlit sky, 

No clear dusk-shadowed stream goes sweetly by, 
No singer lifts his voice in song that glows, 
No sower of all these, unless he sows 

For thee, scatters his seed \ yea, all is thine ; 

With this wide world enclothed shalt thou shine ; 
The morning girds thy brow; the virgin vows 

Of untouched thoughts nod their long plumes for 
thee, 
The dim sad past waits for thy harvest-hand. 

The footless future spreads its sun-path lost ; 

On oceans smooth or rough no keel has crossed. 
Under star-shine no eyes have seen, through bland 

Plains of new flowerage, see. Fate beckons, see ! 



2 1 2 DEDICA TION. 



DEDICATION. 

The moon of memory rises clear 

And fills with radiance all the night ; 

I am borne back in wondrous flight 
To where the pleasant fields appear 
Familiar with the blossoms dear 

To times that pour their splendid light 

Into my very sight of sight, 
And reassume the engirding atmosphere. 

I stand within the mystic land 

Which spirit builds with all the past 
As elements that can bat last, 

While unforgotten murmurs bland 

Of voices whose deep thoughts expand 
Into the glow with boundaries vast. 
Which hope has led to glories fast 

By Heaven's mid purport of ideas grand, 

Restore the charm that brought my feet 
To water-springs of old renown. 
And hill-tops on whose grassy crown 

White temples shone with lore replete 

To assuage the pain of life's deceit. 
Persuade the soul to pause, and down 
The green descent with roses sown 

To watch glad garments of the Muses fleet 



DEDICATION. 213 

The solemn majesty of peace 

Surrounds me weary with the roar 

Of life that loudens more and more ; 
At one brave stroke I find release, 
In this calm air all tumults cease, 

Old stars into my vision soar, 

And dreams that once my being bore 
Into the yellowing fields of thought's increase 

Flash through my brain and heart again ; 

All things return unto that spring 

Wherein my hopes began to sing ; 
I am once more the denizen 
Of earlier aspirations, past the ken 

Of dullard hours that hardly bring 

One flower its fading light to fling 
On toils that are the plodding lot of men. 

And lo ! my moon reveals a change. 

Its light grows whiter, nobler far. 

Its lustre sweeps transfigured star 
On star into its mighty range j 
The night transforms its moated grange 

Into a field with bound and bar 

Where sunrise and the sunset are ; 
What once was lives, and what is now grows strange. 

All the sweet past revives and glows 

Around me with the pristine fire 

Suffusing youth's undimmed desire ; 
The spring of time before the snows 



2 1 4 DEDICA TION. 

Of disappointment spoiled the rose 

Of half its petals, and the ire 

Of Destiny built smouldering pyre 
For much this barren time no longer knows. 

I am again with you, dear friend, 

In lands that see no earthly sun, 

But where the threads of life are spun. 
The realm of thought without an end 
Or mere beginning, whence gods send 

The influence by whose might is done 

Whatever is by action won 
From the sheer dark whose dreamy backgrounds lend 

Sight and just strength to noblest deeds ; 

Nor are we there alone : I sit 

And hark the cadence of your wit ; 
I bring my blossoms mixed with weeds. 
And thrill while many another leads 

By subtle speech or sacred writ 

To that realm's spaces inly fit 
For every instant's many-shifting needs. 

O'er fountains Oriental, sacred wells, 

Dim distant flower-producing sods. 

Haunts of gigantic mystic gods. 
More wondrous than more recent spells 
Evoke in simpler-colored dells. 

You wielded strange diviner's rods, 

And as the waters burst the clods 
We drank and fled Earth's narrowing cells. 



DEDICATION. 215 

But chief we trod with one who saw 
Life's self unveiled, the top of thought 
And crown of men, whose spirit wrought, 

By being's self-returning law 

And Time's successive need to draw 

Help from Greek sources deeply fraught 
With all her highest intellects sought, 

In you who were his message without flaw. 

Above the world we saw the dance 

Of pure Ideas circling through 

The realm of Godhead, and we knew 
How thoughts from hidden thoughts advance, 
And touched by your illumining lance 

The darkest ways of hope with dew. 

Which winds of sunlight overblew. 
Glittered as gloom receded from its glance. 

The deep religions of all Time 

Spoke once again through your clear lips. 

Old poets woke from sad eclipse. 
And sang as in their golden prime 
Of life eternal, and the clime 

Unreached by keel of mortal ships, 

And light whose glorious ocean clips 
Those dreams about with mystic rhyme on rhyme. 

Wherever thought was loftiest. 

Wherever oracle was heard 

Pronouncing being's solvent word, 
Wherever song was chief and best, 



2l6 DEDICATION. 

And truth sustained the winnowing test 
Of age-long rigor, where new-stirred 
Wise forecast once again recurred 

To those dim sources whence have flowed the blest 

Assurances of fervid bard, 

That hope achieves its longings high, 

And tears ascend into the sky, 
Part of the domes whose building hard 
Prepares the fate propitious-starred. 

Which silences Heart's general sigh. 

Making response to every cry. 
And fulness gives to soul however marred, 

Wherever bliss with instinct sure 
Led to its mid of permanence, 
The home of souls, from wandering whence 

Attainment felt itself secure. 

Wherever dwelt the stainless-pure. 
We found you, and the freeing sense 
Of high success warred on the dense 

And thickening veil which we perforce endure, 

The muddying vesture of decay, 
And that dull garb we trod to dust, 
And knew ourselves as know we must. 

Children of Light's unchanging day. 

You set our feet upon the way 

Of purposed and unfaltering trust, 
You taught to find the worth which rust 

Cannot corrupt nor years confuse its ray. 



DEDICA TION. 2 1 7 

And others mixed a gentler tone 

With your firm voice of sight and power, 
The woman's gracious height of dower 

To see the very truth her own, 

To gather blooms to thought unknown, 
Rapt feeling's shy and secret flower, 
To gift the many-pleasured hour 

With dreams from God's own fastness hither flown. 

My thoughts unto those days revert. 

And mingle with those happier eyes 

Alit with flame of fresh surmise, 
That doubt was weak to lame or hurt. 
Or fear to change their gaze alert 

From seeing past the yielding skies 

Ideal shapes of light arise 
Which Time could neither touch nor disconcert. 

I know them as my best of friends. 

And separation cannot dim 

The echo of the mutual hymn. 
Wherein as parts, whose mixture wends 
To music's beauty-fashioning ends, 

We passed thought's ever-widening rim, 

And the world's face of anguish grim 
Saw melt in glow that strength with victory blends. 

Alack ! the band is not complete. 

For some have trod the ways of Death, 
And know the tale his shut mouth saith ; 

You watched their slowly-vanishing feet 

19 



2l8 DEDICATION. 

Into the luminous mists retreat, 

And heard the song below the breath, 
Which deep to deep still uttereth, 

Love's silent voice than audible tunes more sweet. 

They finished well the course ordained. 
Their eyes beheld before their close 
Heaven's white and wondrous central rose ; 

They passed from life unvexed, unstained, 

And many heights of hope attained ; 
The vision of their memory grows 
A dream wherein the far light glows 

Of that fair clime that soul has never gained, 

Save it has had the hardihood 

To penetrate the secrets hid 

In Truth's sky-cleaving pyramid \ 
Afar from Error's darkling wood 
They clomb the mount, and happy stood, 

Where, from earth's lingering traces rid. 

With gaze that feared not lifted lid 
They watched reveal itself the Infinite Good. 

4 

And we shall meet them as before 

Where through the many-blossomed vale 
Truth flows without surcease or fail ; 

The robe of radiance which they wore 

Shall grow in lustre more and more 
As we awake from the sad tale 
Of Time, and hear Love's nightingale 

Lighten the space which once sheer darkness wore. 



DEDICATION. 219 

I would my words could reach their ear 

Across the gulf that unto us 

Is Heaven's mid self grown amorous 
Of those we held so lief and dear ; 
If the immortals may but hear 

On heights of life less tenebrous, 

And lit by fires that shake not thus 
As stars that guide us tremble, dim, and veer, 

I pour my song forth of my soul 

Within the realm where their life is 

To mingle with their ecstasies. 
And so take what I give ; the whole 
-Of ray adventure has for goal 

To voice a glimpse of mysteries 

That underprop the world, and ease 
The heart when inner thunders gloom and roll. 

These blossoms frail of scent and hue 

In slender swaying growth have M'on 

Some light of the unfading sun ; 
They grew in gardens which you knew. 
And precious substance deeply drew 

From showers whose skies were overrun 

By cloud-thoughts' deftly made and spun 
Of words your plenty overbrimmed and threw 

Across our mind's horizon, fair 

With sun that answered your clear spell. 
And flooded river, hill, and dell. 

These verses are swift flights that dare 



2 20 DEDICATION. 

The realm of the serener air ; 
I wooed them by the mystic well 
Around whose murmurs subtly dwell 

The spirits of the life beyond compare. 

These narrow pathways haply lead 

To heights wherefrom the truth is seen, 
Life's luring, nay, compelling queen ; 

Small, rugged, though'they be indeed 

And overgrown by many a weed. 

Perchance beneath the shadows green 
Of tall and overarching treen 

Some joy may make, response to some dim need. 

In music's noble-thoughted peace 

We meet though distance' envious bar 
Holds our fain hands asunder far; 

In thought's soft-lumined high release 

Our strengths abound, our souls increase ; 
Time has no might to maim or mar 
With its divisions, since we are 

Where tumults of the senses fail and cease. 

Truth glows around us ; we are one ; 

The past, the vanished, all are here ; 

The mists of the dream disappear, 
The Ideal rises with its sun. 
Life ever new yet unbegun 

Receives us in its lofty sphere. 

Whence fixed our hearts shall never veer. 
Our journeyings surely overpast and done. 



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